Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Forever"

Автор книги: Stella London

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

I break apart in another orgasm, this time a thousand times more powerful than the last.

“Grace,” he gasps.

Before I can answer I feel St. Clair shudder against me, ecstasy slamming through us both as we sink into each other’s arms, totally spent.

CHAPTER 5

Is it possible to be too happy? A week of eating in the most delicious restaurants of London with St. Clair, getting tables at places that have two-month waiting lists and being treated like royalty; taking long romantic strolls along the river Thames, and spending the night enveloped in each other’s bodies, I feel like I have contentment radiating from every pore. After finally deciding to trust him, things feel perfect with St. Clair.

I have not yet left the bed where I have spent the last six mornings opening my eyes and wondering if I’m in a dream. This morning, the sun lights up St. Clair’s bedroom and I watch my love, my lover, my hot as hell boyfriend as he pulls a shirt on over his perfect chest. He already had his pants on when I woke up, so I missed watching his cute naked butt walk around the room, but I’ve forgiven him since he brought me a steaming hot cup of coffee and the newspaper. His thoughtfulness isn’t new, but I feel like I’m getting to know the real him now, no pretenses.

My only worry is, what if he’s having regrets about giving up his life of crime? Or what if a new case comes along and, just like that, he can’t stop himself from diving back in?

He catches me staring and smiles. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Are you sure?” I blurt out.

“That you’re the prettiest art consultant in London?” he says, coming over to me and kissing me on the lips. “Yes.”

I could let it go, but I need the reassurance. “No, I mean about…your decision.”

He laughs. “I know, Grace, and yes, I’m sure. Surer than sure, certain. Having you in my life is the most important thing.” He lifts the covers and nods approvingly at my scantily clad body. “Having you in my bed is number two.” He kisses my forehead and then looks me in the eyes. “Okay?”

I nod, feeling better. “Okay.”

“Don’t forget you have to get ready, too,” he says. “Big day ahead of us.”

Two hours later, I walk arm-in-arm with St. Clair across a bright green lawn. It’s the Ascot Champion’s Day event, the horse race of the year and apparently the high society event of the season – which is why I’m decked out in a cocktail dress and heels, which keep sinking into the perfectly manicured lawns. Above the bleacher seating in the stands are private viewing boxes, which is where we are headed, and rows of chairs line the impeccably maintained grass below. The impeccably maintained racetrack is lined with white metal railings, and I can feel the excitement in the air.

I thought I would feel overdressed, but this crowd is society all the way. Royalty, even. St. Clair told me that royal family members often attend this event and I’m anxiously keeping my eyes peeled for her Highness or one of the princes. Men in suits pass us and women in silk gowns and gloves that go up past their elbows. I can’t help feeling like Cinderella at the ball.

“Why is this horse race so extravagant?” I ask St. Clair. “And why are so many women wearing such giant hats?”

St. Clair laughs. “British tradition is a weird and wonderful thing,” he explains. “I guess it’s just the way they’ve always done things.”

We enter the private box, already filling with plenty of St. Clair’s finance colleagues who mill about with their wives and children. Even the kids are wearing dresses and tights, the boys in little seersucker suits with suspenders like Christopher Robin.

“This is my girlfriend and very brilliant art consultant, Grace Bennett,” St. Clair introduces me, and I feel a glow at the words.

All his associates are polite and gracious. “How are you enjoying London?” one asks, and another asks me what I thought of the new antiquities exhibit at the British Museum.

“I loved it,” I gush and we talk art for five minutes before St. Clair comes back to “steal me away” like I’m at the prom. With each conversation, each small gesture of approval from St. Clair and his colleagues, I feel more and more like I belong. The only way I’d fit in better is if I were wearing a hat with a wide brim and a huge lacy flower on the side.

“See that horse, number 458?” St. Clair points to the track where the horses have started to congregate. “That’s the winner’s prospect. His name is Buttercup,” he says and I laugh. “He’s the fastest thoroughbred in the country.”

“It just looks like a regular brown horse to me.”

“Well you don’t have the eye,” St. Clair teases.

I give him a flirty smile. “My eye is for other things.”

“Like quality art, I hear,” says a voice behind me and I see the expression on St. Clair’s face shift to fury quicker than these horses can run a lap. “Hello St. Clair, old friend.”

St. Clair tenses. “Spencer Crawford,” he says with obvious disdain. “You know we were never friends.”

I turn. It’s the same man we ran into at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago; the same smug-faced, red-haired creep who swindled St. Clair’s family out of their prized Armande painting. He just keeps turning up, like a bad penny.

Crawford booms out an obnoxious laugh. “Touché, man. You got me there.”

“Sir? Mr. Crawford, sir?” A timid young woman stands behind him holding a small dog, a large laptop bag and clipboard weighing her down. She looks plain and terrified, and definitely underdressed, so I’m guessing this girl is his employee. Poor thing.

“What is it, Natalie?” he snaps at her, not even turning around. The dog whimpers.

“You have a new message from the Director of—”

“Shh!” he cuts her off. “How many times have I told you not to give me my messages in public?” he scolds and the dog whines again. “And shut that damn dog up!”

She looks flustered, and pushes up her glasses. “But sir—”

“Shut it,” he glares. “If you can’t do your job quietly, I’ll find someone who can.”

Natalie makes a whimper like the dog but doesn’t say a word. I send her a sympathetic look, but she quickly looks away, flushing red.

Crawford turns back to St. Clair. “You running a horse today?”

St. Clair shakes his head, his jaw tense.

“I am,” Crawford says. “Care to make a friendly wager, despite us not being friends?” He hacks out another awful laugh that makes me cringe.

St. Clair smiles icily. “Not with you.”

“Learning from your father’s mistakes, huh? I can respect that.”

It’s a low blow, and I feel St. Clair tense up even more. I take his hand. “I could use a drink, Charles,” I tell him, ignoring Crawford. “Let’s go.”

I practically drag him away. He’s got a look in his eyes like he wants to knock Crawford out, and although I wouldn’t blame him, that kind of attention is the last thing we need.

Once we’re clear, St. Clair lets out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, glaring back at where Crawford is berating his poor assistant.

“For what? He’s the asshole.”

St. Clair gives a sharp laugh. “I wish that’s all he was. But he’s cunning, too. It’s how he gets ahead, finds his opponent’s weakness, then uses it to get the upper hand.”

“Is that what he did with your father?” I ask carefully.

St. Clair nods. “Everyone knows my father has a gambling problem. The gentlemen in town won’t take his bets, but Crawford is no gentleman. He let him get deeper and deeper into debt, until he went to desperate measures.”

“And stole your mother’s painting to pay it all off,” I finish, feeling a surge of anger.

St. Clair collects himself. “It’s in the past. Don’t let him spoil our day. How about those drinks?”

“Sounds great.” I kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll meet you at the bar. Restrooms?”

“That way.” St. Clair sends me off with a light tap on my ass.

I find the luxurious bathrooms across the main marquee area, and splash some water over my wrists to cool down. A couple of older women are settled in on the silk settee, gossiping with gleeful expressions. Snatches of their conversation drift over as I touch up my makeup.

“And did you see Muffy? I heard her youngest ran off with her Latin tutor…”

“….Of course, she served the scallops practically raw…”

“…all those funds, just vanished. Crawford’s got a lot to answer for.”

Crawford? I perk up, and pay attention.

“I’m just glad my husband had the sense to put our money in gold,” one woman declares, sounding smug. “You can’t trust the markets anymore. Do you think he’ll face charges?”

The other woman laughs. “Of course not. It’s all perfectly legal, the investors knew the risk. He’s covered himself.”

“Didn’t he buy that new pied-a-terre in Cannes the other month?”

“And a yacht to match. Our Crawford will be just fine.”

They finally look up and see me lurking there, so I quickly snap my purse shut and head back outside, pondering what I’ve just heard.

I find St. Clair on the main balcony, with two glasses of champagne. “What happened with Crawford’s company?” I ask. “I heard people gossiping in the ladies’ room.”

St. Clair scowls. “His investment company went bust. It’s a racket—thousands of people lost their pensions, their life savings, but Crawford and his partners won’t lose a dime.”

“That’s so unfair!” I exclaim.

“He’ll get away with it, unfortunately.” St. Clair looks downcast. “It’s the way the world works, especially for people like Crawford.”

We walk back to the box, arriving just as the race gets started. I want to shoot daggers at Crawford’s sweaty back all day, but I’m distracted by the starting pistol. It’s exciting when the gun goes off and the horses jet out of their gates, legs pounding the ground in a fury of hooves, jockeys hunched intently over their saddles.

Crawford cheers loudly for Thundercloud, his horse, as the thoroughbreds take the first curve. “Go go go go go go go gooooooooo!” he yells, pounding his fist on the ledge so hard he spills everyone’s drinks.

The race is thrilling, horses inching ahead by their noses, small gasps from the audience, and intermittent cheers for certain horses, but it is much more subdued than American sports. Crawford would probably fit in better at a football game.

The horses. They race down the final stretch of the track and for a moment, Thundercloud noses ahead, literally, and then Buttercup, the predicted winner, shoots up at the last second and crosses the ribbon first.

Cheers erupt from the bleachers below, but Crawford’s loud booming “No! God damn it!” echoes off the walls and everyone turns to look at him. A few women fan their faces like they’ve been scandalized, but Crawford pays no mind. He storms off, his poor assistant and the dog trailing behind him like cartoon sidekicks. It would be funny if it wasn’t real life.

St Clair and I mingle for a while longer. “You want a closer look at the horses?” he asks.

“Can we?”

“VIP all the way,” he winks, and takes me down to the paddock.

Buttercup is surrounded by press and photographers, having his photo taken with an arch of roses draped around his neck and proud jockey and owner at his side. Buttercup looks almost as happy as his handlers, munching on alfalfa.

Thundercloud, on the other hand, looks miserable. When I get to the stalls, leaving St. Clair to speak with some of his associates, I see the second place horse whinnying and pawing at the ground in his stall as Crawford yells at his jockey. I take a few steps back.

“You tiny, worthless rider!” Crawford screams. “You’re about as useful as this horse.” Crawford looks at Thundercloud, a dappled bay, neighing and pacing in circles. “What? You think you deserve praise? Second place is still a loser!” He punches the door to his stall. Natalie and the jockey jump, and so do I. What an asshole.

“Mr. Crawford, sir,” the jockey starts, but Crawford doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

“You’re fired! And I want this horse shipped off to the knackers yard! I’m not paying for this thing anymore. What a waste of my time.”

He kicks the stall again, and his dog starts barking, straining at his leash as if he can’t wait to get out of there. I sympathize.

“This is a magnificent creature, Mr. Crawford. You can’t just—” The jockey tries to argue, but Crawford is relentless. “Dismissed! Get out of my sight before I ship you off, too.”

Natalie looks like she has tears in her eyes but she keeps a straight face as the jockey storms off and Crawford looks at her. “You too!” he bellows.

“Yes, sir,” she squeaks, starting to move away.

“And shut up that damn dog!” he yells but the dog just barks more rapidly.

Natalie trembles. “I don’t think he likes the horses—”

Crawford swiftly kicks the dog in its ribs, lifting it off the ground with the force of his foot. The poor dog yelps and cowers around Natalie’s legs, shaking now, but it stops barking. “There,” he snorts. “Now go do your damn job before I have to fire you, too.”

Natalie looks like she’s about to burst into sobs as Crawford stomps past her and out of the stables in a cloud of dust.

I watch him go, overcome with rage. It’s not fair that men like Crawford can do whatever they want and get away with it. Where’s the justice for the lives he’s ruined?

The anger is hot in my veins. I turn and go find St. Clair in the crowd, dragging him away from his friends and over to a quiet corner away from all the noise.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did something happen?”

I nod, forcing myself to stay composed. “We need to make Crawford pay.”

“How?” he asks.

“You know how,” I say, steel in my voice.

St. Clair looks surprised, and he’s momentarily speechless. “But Grace—”

“I know what I asked of you, but I can’t stand it. The way he treats people, it’s not right. He deserves to pay for what he’s done. And you’re the only one who can hit him where it hurts.”

St. Clair studies me, still uncertain. “I agree with what you’re saying. But Grace, you know, I’ve given all that up now. I really have.”

“So we do it together.” I look at him, determined. “We steal that Armande painting back. That’s one less thing he’ll have to lord over someone.”

CHAPTER 6

The next morning, I wake up still determined to make Crawford pay for his wrongs, but St. Clair isn’t next to me in bed. I smell coffee and delicious bacon so I wander downstairs and find him in the kitchen, cooking me a feast.

“What should we do today?” he asks as he pulls crisp waffles from a waffle iron and sets them on plates next to bacon and fresh fruit. “I was thinking a picnic in St. James Park, by the lake. We can relax in the sun, watch them feed the pelicans…what do you say?” He tops the waffles with sliced berries and whipped cream and hands me a plate. “It’ll be lovely, just like you.”

I smile. He’s so sweet. “Mmm, that smells heavenly.” I take the plate from him and sip the coffee he’d already set out for me just the way I like it. “You’re spoiling me.”

He grins. “Exactly my goal. Then you’ll never want to leave.”

I take a bite and am awed again by how good a cook he is. “Maybe you should have gone into culinary arts,” I say and he laughs. We eat for a few minutes until I work up the courage to ask, “Have you thought any more about what I suggested last night?”

He gives me a look. “I was hoping you would sleep that off.”

I shake my head. “I just can’t stand to watch him take advantage of everyone else and get away with it.” I tell St. Clair about Crawford kicking the dog, shipping the horse off to be put down. “He’s a truly horrible person, Charles.”

“Oh believe me, I know that better than most,” he sighs. “And I agree that he deserves to pay, but I promised you I’d give up that life, remember? You didn’t want me to take those risks.”

I bite my lip. “I know.”

He smiles playfully and nudges me with his elbow. “Have you changed your mind about how much you’d miss me?”

“Of course not.” I smile, but it’s full of mixed emotions. “I still don’t want to lose you, or get arrested myself, but…if the law isn’t going to deliver justice, how will it ever happen?”

St. Clair gives me a rueful smile. “This is exactly what I’ve been dealing with. It’s tempting to take the law into your own hands, but Grace, I made you a promise. I’m committed to being a better man.”

“I know, and it means the world to me. But I can’t just sit back and let him get away with this.” I feel my frustration boil up all over again. “He betrayed your family, he’s destroyed countless others…I know one painting isn’t going to right those wrongs, but at least this way we can take something he cares about, so he knows how it feels to lose, to be betrayed like he’s done to so many others.”

St. Clair hesitates. “Are you sure?”

His gaze is so intent, I have to consider for a second, but yes, I’m sure. I want to do this. “He deserves it.”

St. Clair slowly nods. He leans over and kisses me, full of heat. “Can I just say how sexy you are right now, all pumped up with righteous passion?”

I bat him away, laughing, realizing I’m excited. I’m starting to understand St. Clair’s and Paige’s love of the chase, and we’ve barely just begun. “Where do we start? What’s first?” I take a big gulp of coffee. I want to be alert for this.

“First, we need to make a plan,” St. Clair says, and already, I can see the gears of his mind working behind those intelligent eyes. “Crawford keeps the painting in a safe deposit vault in London, so the first step is reconnaissance. I’ll make an appointment at the vault, pretend I’m looking for storage for some of my valuable pieces. We can take a tour, and check out what we’re up against.” He smiles at me, and I can feel us both buzzing with energy and ready to go. “Sound good?”

I nod, feeling a weird mix of excitement and nerves. “Can’t wait.”

A few hours later, picnic plans abandoned, we stand in front of the vault facility. It’s a high-end yet nondescript brick structure that could be a warehouse except for the intense security: cameras posted on the exterior walls, security keypads and buzzers everywhere, and a set of guards at the front door.

“Ready?” St. Clair asks, squeezing my hand.

My heart is racing. I think that’s what they call an adrenaline rush, Grace. Right. I take a deep breath, and remind myself that nothing we’re doing right now is breaking the law. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I square my shoulders, try to look the part in my designer dress. Casual, but elegant.

Guards posted at the doors check our IDs and once we’re past the front checkpoint, suddenly the warehouse vibe disappears and it’s all luxury inside. A posh lobby with marble flooring and gold trim on the fixtures greets us, a chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, and there’s a hush like a bank even though several employees are milling about.

St. Clair gives the receptionist our name and almost immediately, the head of the whole outfit, the president of the vault, appears. “Mr. St. Clair,” he says, shaking St. Clair’s hand enthusiastically. “So nice to meet you. And you, Ms. Bennett,” he says shaking my hand as well. “I’m Mr. Potts. Shall we get started?”

He leads us down a long hallway and through a nearly invisible door that has a keypad mounted to the side. He punches in a few numbers and I see St. Clair follow the movement of his fingers on the keypad. Potts isn’t even trying to hide the numbers!

“I’m assuming there are cameras at all access points to support the keypad security?” St. Clair says. “I can’t take any risks with my assets, you understand.”

Mr. Potts chuckles. “Of course, sir. This is simply the first measure.” The door clicks open and we walk into another hallway, this one lined with steel doors on each side, dozens of them. We stop at the first.

Mr. Potts says, “This is the sample vault; it’s always empty so we can show prospective clients like yourself the incredibly secure measures we have in place to protect your valuables. First, there is a fingerprint scanner to open the door. You’ll see there are no handles or locks on the outside and the door is hermetically sealed.” He presses his thumb to a pad and what looks like a piece of the wall slides aside.

“Fingerprints can be forged,” St. Clair points out.

“Absolutely, which is why we move on to phase three.” Potts looks almost gleeful as he proudly displays the next step in their security. Once the door is open, another panel slides out.

“Next, there are dual key locks and another keypad with a thirteen digit code—with only one allowed entry before it locks you out.” Potts enters the codes, turns a key, and we step into the vault. It’s a white, blank space with more doors along the wall. “Inside you can see there are high-tech safes available upon request for the utmost in protection.” He points out, “Cameras line all the hallways as well as the vaults themselves. If any alarm is tripped, all doors automatically close and seal shut, and both our security and the local police are alerted.” Mr. Potts smiles at us proudly. “As you can see, we take security very seriously.”

“Yes, it certainly looks to be the case,” St. Clair says, which is like the understatement of the year. This place would give Fort Knox a run for its money. It’s impenetrable, unbreachable.

My heart sinks just looking around. How the hell are we going to beat all this?

“We’re not,” St. Clair answers me, once we’ve left and are far enough away from the vault to discuss our plans in peace. “That’s serious stuff in there, all the best security protocols.”

“But you can beat it, right?” I ask hopefully. “You’ve done this before, tons of times.”

St. Clair smiles. “Carringer’s, the museums, they were all a cake walk compared to this. Those places had people coming and going, and there are always cracks to slip through. Here, there are no cracks. No one gets near those vaults who’s not supposed to. Including us.”

I feel my hopes deflate. “Well, I guess we tried,” I say, but my voice is heavy with disappointment.

St. Clair glances at me as we cross the street into a bustling area full of boutiques and cafes. He looks amused. “Are you always so quick to give up? That’s not the Grace I know.”

“What?”

“I thought you wanted to do this.”

I’m confused. “But you just said—”

“I said we couldn’t break in there.” He grins. “So we’ll just have to make Crawford move the painting somewhere else. Somewhere with less security.”

I’m intrigued, and impressed. He thinks of everything, his mind always a step ahead. No wonder he spent so many years foiling the cops. “You are a genius,” I say.

He pretends to preen. “Now she sees my brilliance!”

I laugh and elbow him lightly. “Okay, so where? How?”

He gives me a mysterious smile. “I’ll think of something. Now, though, I have to be getting to a meeting.” He pulls me in for a kiss. “You okay to get home?”

“Of course,” I say. “I love exploring this city.”

I kiss him again, deeper, not caring who else is around. His mouth meets mine and it’s still the knee-weakening, foot popping, butterflies in my stomach spark as the very first time. He trails a kiss to the side of my neck and my pulse speeds up, heat rising up my chest. “Hold that thought,” he whispers, sending shivers down my body as he grins and walks away.

I inhale his scent. “Oh, I will,” I say and I watch his tight ass as he jogs down the street.

I’m still feeling the imprint of his lips as I stroll back along the street. The bakeries and cafés blur, and soon I lose track of my direction. I’m still so caught up in the shivering excitement of St. Clair’s touch – and the intoxicating risk of our plans – that I barely notice the man who falls into step beside me until he says, “Hello, Grace.”

I jolt. It’s Nick Lennox, strolling along next to me. My heart stops. How long has he been watching us?

“Anything I can help you with today, Agent?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“You’re quite a ways from home.”

“A whole ocean away, in fact,” I quip.

He smiles. “You’re clever, like your boyfriend. But that will only take you so far.” He rubs his chin and the perpetual stubble that lives there. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, Grace?”

“I’m exploring this great city,” I shoot back. “That’s not a crime.”

“No, but obstructing an investigation is. This is not a joke, Grace. You could go to jail.”

My nerves tremor, but I keep walking. “For taking a midday stroll?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Lennox moves in front of me, blocking my path. He looks at me sternly. “You’re a good girl, Grace, but you’re playing with fire, risking your entire future. I don’t want to see you taking the fall for him. You wouldn’t last a week in jail.”

He’s trying to scare me and it’s working. My palms are starting to sweat and my heart is racing in my chest. But I try to stay calm.

He’s bluffing right now, it’s all he’s got. If he had any real evidence against St. Clair, he would have gotten that search warrant and arrested him by now. “But only guilty people go to prison, right?” I insist. “And I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Lennox snorts. “Breaking and entering, accessory to grand theft, or hell, maybe you’re in on the whole thing.” He leans in close. “Even if you just know more than you’re telling me, I can make sure that you do time. Is that worth it for a boyfriend? Especially a player like St. Clair?”

“Are you done with your vague ominous threats yet?” I shoot back. “Because I’ve heard them all before, and I’d like to get to lunch sometime soon.” A month ago his line might have sent me into all kinds of worry about St. Clair’s commitment to me, but not now. I know where I stand in his life, and we’ve both made our choices.

Lennox scowls. “Don’t say I didn’t try and help you.” He stands aside. “You had your chance to make a deal, and bring him to justice. Now, if he goes down, you will too. I’ll see to that.”

I hurry away, his words still echoing in my mind.