Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Forever"

Автор книги: Stella London

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

CHAPTER 7

I decide not to tell St. Clair about my run-in with Lennox, it would only make him more annoyed with the Interpol agent and maybe make him reconsider going after Crawford. Now that I’m set on bringing that asshole to justice, making him pay whatever way we can, I don’t want St. Clair getting distracted.

I try to busy myself with work and a few hours of painting in my studio for the next few days. I even manage a call home to the di Fiores, but when Nona starts asking how St. Clair is treating me, and what we’ve been up to here in London, I make up an excuse about needing to get back to work and hang up. I know I can never explain this side of my life to her, and I don’t want anyone worrying about me while I’m so far away. I miss San Francisco and my little Italian family, but I’m not ready to go back yet. Not until justice is served.

Meanwhile, Charles does whatever it is that high-profile financiers-slash-art thieves do, until finally one evening he greets me at his apartment with a satisfied smile.

“Fancy a night on the town?” he asks.

I can tell he’s excited about something, and he’s full of playful energy as he pulls me in for a kiss. “Anywhere in particular?” I ask.

“I was thinking the Bellingham,” he says, his hands roving over my body and making my pulse kick. He nips at my neck. “It’s a private supper club. Crawford’s regular stomping ground.”

“So you’ve figured it out?” I pull away, excited. He laughs.

“Maybe.” St. Clair grins. “I have a plan, we just need to see if he bites.”

“What do I need to do?”

“You just be your gorgeous self,” he says, and then leans in to murmur in my ear. “And perhaps don’t wear any underwear…”

I blink. “Your plan for revenge on Crawford involves me not wearing any panties?”

He smirks. “No, but my plan to ravish you later does.”

My stomach skips. His hands move around between my thighs, caressing me through my work dress. I shiver, and press against him, feeling his strong body against me in a wall of muscle. St. Clair’s breath is hot in my ear for a moment as his hands skim up, teasing over my breasts and stomach. I want to strip right here and show him just how ready for him I am, but St. Clair steps back.

“Later,” he vows, his eyes dark with lust. “First, Crawford.”

“Whatever you need. For your plan to work,” I reply, a little breathless. I can’t wait for the night to get underway.

We arrive at the Bellingham in time for dinner, the valet greeting us outside and sweeping us in through the discreet gilded entrance. Inside, it’s old world England, with a wood-paneled whiskey bar and a grand formal dining room. We linger in the bar amongst the posh regulars, St. Clair greeting a few acquaintances, but I can tell his attention is focused on the door, until finally, Crawford arrives in with his assistant Natalie in tow. No dog this time, and I hope the poor thing didn’t get shipped off like the horse.

“Here they are,” I whisper to St. Clair, feeling my heart race. He hasn’t told me the big plan yet, and I’m excited to see it unfold.

“Patience,” he whispers, then smoothly starts a conversation with the couple beside us about the stock market, and their kids.

I watch Crawford. He sets up in a corner booth, while Natalie scurries off to the bar to fetch him a drink. She returns hesitantly with a glass of something, and Crawford takes one sip – then spits it out, splashing her blouse. She takes a small step back as he starts up his usual verbal abuse.

I tense. St. Clair’s hand is on my waist, calming me, but my blood still boils to watch him belittle her in front of everyone. Finally Natalie slips away, red-faced as she ducks into the crowd, heading for the ladies’ room.

“Excuse me,” I tell St. Clair’s friends. “Just going to freshen up.”

I find Natalie in the restroom, sniffling and trying to rinse off her shirt. She glances at me when the door opens. First she looks embarrassed, but I give her a sympathetic smile.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She wipes at her eyes again and then seems to recognize me. “You were at the Ascot Day with St. Clair,” she says, her voice still shaky with tears.

“Yeah. I’m his art consultant. And girlfriend.” I blush and then hold out my hand. “Grace.”

She shakes it. “Natalie.” She blows her nose.

“You work for Spencer Crawford?”

“Yes, the tosspot.” She flushes. “Sorry. I just have to make up names for him in my head since I can’t say anything back to his face.”

“I saw him kick your dog. I’m so sorry.”

Natalie starts crying again and I move forward and hand her a tissue from the box on the counter. “It’s his dog! He forced me to get him one even though I knew it was a bad idea and then he treats it terribly, and makes me take care of the poor thing.” She blows her nose again and wipes her eyes. “I feel so bad for Wall Street.” I raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. “I know. That’s his name. He’s a purebred.”

I start laughing and then she starts laughing and then we’re both having a giggle fit right there in the bathroom of a posh club where we don’t really belong. We are both here only because we work for (and/or date) rich men who can afford to belong to places like this.

“Thanks,” she says, when our laughter dies away. “I needed that.”

“I’m sorry he’s such a jerk. Why do you put up with it?” I ask, but I think I already know. It wasn’t that long ago that I was in a similar position: desperate to get my foot in the right door, taking any paid work I could, hoping to make my way up the ranks if I just stuck it out long enough.

“I hope this job will lead to something else, but if I resign, everyone will just think I couldn’t handle it,” she says, sad but determined. “I’ve got to grin and bear it.”

She sounds like a true Brit, with a stiff upper lip attitude. But I also understand her drive—just a few months ago, that was me. My boss at Carringer’s was not as bad as Crawford, but she was no walk in the park. Those of us who are not born lucky have to work a little harder, take a little more crap.

“I get it,” I say, and I do. But I also now want to teach Crawford a lesson even more. For Natalie. And for Wall Street. I lean in. “But I also know karma is a bitch and he’ll get what he deserves eventually.”

She looks hopeful. “You think?”

I smile. Oh, I know. “I do. And it might even be sooner than you expect.”

I leave Natalie to finish composing herself—she came prepared with make-up since she says she often ends up crying at work—and I force myself not to stomp over to Crawford and deck him in his fat chin right now. I remind myself that St. Clair is clever, and I should leave the subterfuge up to him. He’s been at this game longer than I have.

I rejoin him at the bar. He’s with a group of people now, and Crawford is lurking nearby. St. Clair winks at me as I approach.

“As I was saying, this loan I’m making for the Chervelle Foundation will be the talk of the art scene—no one else is going to come close!” He elaborates a little with his charm, building up the donation without giving many specifics, just talking a little louder and louder until Crawford takes the bait.

“What is this about, St. Clair?” he booms, parting the crowd like the red sea.

St. Clair gives a casual shrug. “I was just talking about my new acquisition.”

Crawford snorts. “What, did you buy another Picasso?”

“Actually, it’s the Portrait of a Princess by Sergio Graziano.”

A few people make small gasps, and I understand why: it’s a famous impressionist painting that’s rarely been exhibited. Crawford is skeptical. “That painting has never been for sale.”

St. Clair smiles coolly. “It was, though, and I bought it. Too bad you didn’t know it was available. I suppose they only bothered contacting serious buyers.” He emphasizes the word ‘serious’ and I can see the vein in Crawford’s forehead pulsing.

St. Clair continues, “I’m loaning it to the Chervelle Foundation for their big charity exhibit in Paris. It’s their biggest donation, of course. The press is having a field day, all the headlines are already written.” He looks Crawford in the eye. “It’s a pity you don’t have anything that could match it. I suppose this puts me on top of our little rivalry, old friend. I hope you’ll be able to make the opening.” St. Clair smiles, but the challenge is there and Crawford rises to it.

“As it happens,” he muses, “I have been looking for a place to display that Armande painting I love so much. Perhaps this is the perfect chance.”

St. Clair’s smile vanishes. Crawford smirks. “Yes, now that I think about it, the Foundation would love an artwork of that caliber for their exhibit. It would really raise the tone of the whole proceeding. Natalie!” he barks, without looking.

She appears at his side, clipboard at the ready. “Yes, sir?”

“Contact my art team, tell them we’ll be transporting the Armande to Paris.” He turns back to St. Clair with a smug grin. “Let’s see how much they care about your Graziano with a real masterpiece on display.”

St. Clair manages to look downcast, and he keeps up the act all the way into the dining room. We take a seat in the corner, and only then, out of sight, does he let his smile of triumph show.

“He took the bait, hook line and sinker!” He raises his glass in a toast, and I clink it.

“But wait,” I say, still not following. “How is moving the painting to the gallery going to help us? They’ll have plenty of security, too.”

St. Clair nods. “True. But nothing compared to those vaults. I’ll have access to the gallery because of my own donation, and it’ll be far easier to find a weakness in their system.”

I’m impressed. “You’re kinda good at this.”

He chuckles. “I do my best.”

“Seriously though, how do you do that? Take charge, make things happen instead of just waiting, or hoping, for something to work out?”

“I’m no good at waiting,” he shrugs. “I want things to happen my way.”

“I wish I could be more like that, in charge of my own destiny, not afraid to go after things I want.” I sigh and think about how my life might have been different, how it could be different now if I wasn’t so cautious.

“You are,” he reassures me, reaching to take my hand. “You’re here, making your own decisions right now. Don’t sell yourself short, Grace. Besides, there will be no time for feeling sorry for yourself once we’re in Paris.”

“Paris?!”

His eyes are dancing. “Well that’s where the painting will be,” he laughs. “How do you feel about a little trip?”

“I’m going to Paris!” I nearly shout with glee. Paris! I can’t believe it.

Two days later, I’m all packed for the trip – well, almost. I still need a gorgeous ball gown for the big exhibition event, so I recruit Paige to come shopping with me in Soho.

“What do you think of this one?” I ask Paige, holding up a stunning red silk gown that falls to the floor in lush drapes and body hugging curves.

Paige whistles. “Gorgeous. I wish I had a reason to get that dressed up.”

“I wish you could come to the opening.” I say. Paris still feels like a dream come true. The most romantic city in the world, with the hottest guy I’ve ever met—who just happens to be in love with me. Is there a better fantasy?

“Me too,” Paige sighs. “And I wish I had a handsome rich boyfriend to whisk me off for romantic weekends abroad, too,” she winks. “I’m guessing you decided that the good outweighs the bad then?”

“What?” I pull my gaze away from the midnight blue dress I’ve been dreamily eyeing.

“Our not-so-hypothetical conversation, about people having a dark side?” she reminds me. “It looks like whatever you learned about St. Clair isn’t a problem anymore.”

I feel guilty for hiding everything from her, but I know I can’t tell her the truth. “I don’t think it is, no. But, I do have another hypothetical for you…”

“Ask away!” she perks, holding up a black floor-length halter dress with tons of sparkles along the bodice. “Too Vegas?” she asks, swishing it back and forth. I flash a thumbs-down.

“So the question is…have you ever done the wrong thing, but for the right reason?” I ask, trying to make it sound light, but really wanting to hear her opinion.

She looks up from another gown she’s eyeing and raises an eyebrow. “Deep thoughts today, Gracie?”

I shrug. “I was just wondering.”

Paige looks at me, and I know she can tell I’m serious. “Whatever thing you’re doing, or whatever your reasons are—or his—I trust you to make the right decision for you. Nothing is black and white, you know that.” She pauses. “I think you just have to trust your instincts.”

“That makes sense.” And my instincts do feel like this is the right thing. “Thanks.”

“You want to talk about what’s on your mind?” Paige says and I feel another twinge of guilt at not being able to confide in her.

I shake my head and force a smile. “I’m just nervous.” I hold up the red dress against my chest again. “Should I try this one on?”

“Yes!” Paige says, letting the topic drop. “Lady in red…” she serenades as I walk away.

When I come out of the dressing room wearing the luscious silk against my skin, its one shoulder design highlighting my shapely torso, I feel like a million bucks.

“You look stunning,” Paige says.

“It’s not too much?” I ask. It’s definitely the most attention-getting dress I’ve ever worn.

“No way,” she soothes. “It’s sexy. Classy. Perfect.”

I do a little twirl and Paige laughs. “I feel like a celebrity,” I say, staring at myself in the mirror. I’ve come such a long way from my waitress outfit at Giovanni’s.

“You seem like one these days,” Paige says. “Really, I’ve never seen you so happy, so confident, so alive. Your mom would be proud, seeing you embrace life again.” Paige squeezes my shoulder. “I think she’d agree it’s time.”

I feel a pang of sadness, thinking of my mom, wishing she could come to Paris with me. But I also feel thankful, to have met St. Clair, to be in love and living this exciting life. “I feel really lucky,” I admit. “It’s all because of St. Clair.”

Paige says, “I’m so happy for you.” She smiles and I know she really means it, even if she hasn’t found her own happiness yet.

“Thanks,” I say. “I would not have made it here without you all these years.”

I hug her, and then slip back into the dressing room before tears show up. I gaze at my reflection, the fancy gown, a world away from where I thought I’d end up, doing things I never would have imagined I’d do.

Would Mom approve of our plan for justice? I’m not sure, but I do know she always trusted me to follow my path, make my own decisions. And what’s more, I believe in St. Clair, in this cause that’s no longer just his. We are doing the right thing, I’m sure of it.

I take the dress off and carry it to the register. Paige squeals, “You’re going to Paris! It’d better watch out for your sexy ass if it knows what’s good for it.”

I grin at my old friend. “Yes, I am, and yes it should.”

I know this trip is going to be life-changing.

CHAPTER 8

Touchdown in Paris! I’m so excited I can hardly contain myself as we catch a cab from the airport, swiveling my head from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.

“Where is it?” I ask as we turn another corner. “When can we go see the sights?”

“You’re adorable when you’re excited,” St. Clair says, kissing my cheek. “But remember why we’re here.”

I smile. “I’m actually excited about that, too,” I say truthfully. “It seems your bad influence may be rubbing off on me.”

He grins, then clears his throat. “I’ll take you to see the sights, I promise. But first we have to deliver my painting to the gallery, so we can scope out the scene. I sent the delivery by van ahead of us, and they just arrived.”

“You really do think of everything,” I note.

St. Clair takes my hand; I can tell he’s excited too. “I’m glad I don’t have to hide this,” he murmurs, kissing my neck. “That I don’t have to lie anymore. It makes me feel even closer to you.”

“Me too,” I answer, even as my stomach twists in a nervous knot. Now that we’re here in Paris, it’s feeling more real: what we’re about to do.

Am I making a mistake?

The gallery is an old building in a fancy area, understated yet luxurious. It’s closed, but we’re shown inside, past the construction and all the preparations for the upcoming exhibition. I look around, noticing the artwork already hanging on the walls. Part of me wishes I could just enjoy the art at the opening like a normal attendee.

“Mr. St. Clair,” a woman says with French accent, coming to greet us. “How wonderful to meet you at last. Marie Villenueve.” She steps forward and shakes his hand.

St. Clair says, “Enchantee,” and then something else in French, and Marie beams. Then he says, “This is Grace, my art consultant.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says to me. “We are just so thrilled that you have loaned us such an important painting for our opening. We can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s my pleasure.” St. Clair looks around. “Did it arrive safely?”

“But of course. We have it in the back, and you’re more than welcome to check the condition yourself.” Marie smiles, and gives me a look. “I know how possessive these art lovers can be. They like to know their infants are safe. Come.”

We follow her through a ‘staff only’ door, into the back of the gallery. Here, behind the scenes, it’s a lot like the auction house in San Francisco: there are offices and several rooms filled with artwork in various stages of unpacking or restoration, and people are bustling around getting everything ready.

Marie leads us to a large room in the back, which opens up to a loading dock for deliveries. This space is the most chaotic of all: packing crates are stacked against the walls, tables are loaded with supplies, and worker are busy unloading a pallet with large crates stamped ‘handle with care’.

I look around, trying to see the scene not as a new consultant or intern, but as St. Clair would see it: as a thief would see it. First I notice that St. Clair was right—there is definitely less security here. I see a couple of guys in guard uniforms, but they’re bustling around, talking to people, not posted on watch. Lots of people are coming and going—workers, maintenance men, gallery docents, curators like Marie, art restorers, and all types of other employees. And there are multiple entrance and exit points for sneaking in and escaping.

Compared to the vaults, this is a breeze.

Another storage crate is being unloaded from a truck onto the dock. ‘Crawford’ is printed on a label on the side. Marie sees me looking at the crate. “And another big donation coming in at the same time!” She turns to St. Clair. “We just can’t thank you enough for recruiting Spencer Crawford to help with the exhibit as well.”

St. Clair smiles, modest. “This is an important cause. I want to see it do well.”

“We never expected such a generous loan from two of the art world’s biggest names!” she gushes. “Truly, it’s an honor.”

“I’m happy to do it,” he says.

Marie clears some space on the closest table and directs two workers to roll the crate with St. Clair’s painting a little closer. They lift the painting from the crate with care, like they’re holding a baby, and set it carefully on the table.

“Beautiful,” Marie breathes. “I hadn’t seen it in person yet.”

“Indeed,” St. Clair says. “I can’t wait to see it hanging tonight.”

Marie calls someone else over, and they begin talking in rapid-fire French. I’m sure St. Clair’s brain is tracking all the little details he’ll need to pull off the heist, and I know the things I noticed are just the beginning.

“See that?” St. Clair whispers, nodding to another table. I follow his gaze. There’s a jacket slung over the back of a chair – with a security badge dangling from the pocket.

I nod.

“I need a distraction,” St. Clair whispers. “Can you make that happen?”

I nod, but my mind goes blank. What do I do?

“My apologies,” Marie says, turning back to me. “Now, are we all set here?”

St. Clair gives me a look. Time’s running out. I have to think fast.

I look around and see a bottle of restorer’s chemicals on the table – right beside St. Clair’s painting. I recognize the label: it’s a gentle water-based cleaning fluid that can be used on even the most delicate canvas.

In other words, it’s totally harmless.

“What’s that?” I ask loudly, pointing to the painting. “That dark smudge?”

“What?” Marie’s head whips around.

“There, in the corner.” I lean in, clumsily knocking the bottles over – spilling cleaning fluid all over the painting.

“Oh my God!” I yell as the liquid spills over the canvas. “I’m so sorry!”

Marie gasps. “Merde! No!”

Our cries draw attention. Everyone turns to look. “George!” she calls in panic. “The fix-it kit!” A small man runs over with a small bag in hand.

“Out of the way,” he barks.

“I’m so sorry!” I apologize again loudly. “Can I help?”

Marie and George busy themselves over the canvas until George realizes that the bottles that spilled are harmless. “It’s fine,” he says, glaring at me.

“Oh, thank goodness! I can’t believe I did that,” I say, playing the part as best I can. “I’m not usually so clumsy!”

Marie says, “I’m so sorry, Mr. St. Clair. We don’t usually leave open bottles of chemicals lying around. We will get this into the secure storage room right away to keep it from…” she glances at me, “to keep it safe.”

St. Clair is charming, as always. “No harm done. Thank you for being so quick to assist.”

“It’s a priceless piece of art,” she says. “We will do everything we can to ensure its pristine condition.”

“I’m sure you will,” he says.

I manage to keep it together until we’re back in a cab, speeding away from the gallery. Then I lean in and whisper, “Did you get it?”

“Yes, security code swiped.” He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Good job on the distraction, by the way.”

“Really?” My heart skips with pride.

“Already a pro,” he nods. “But tonight is when the real fun starts. We’ll come back and deal with Crawford’s piece before the opening.”

“But won’t everyone know it’s gone? The police will be all over the gallery. And once Lennox knows we were there…” I gulp.

St. Clair smiles. “Don’t worry, I had a replacement painted. I packed it into the back of the crate we used to transport my painting – it’s right there waiting in the storage area. We’ll swap that with the real one tonight and no one will be the wiser.”

I glance through the plexiglass divider up at the cab driver, who doesn’t pay us any mind. Even if his English is impeccable, he still wouldn’t know what we’re talking about. I relax into St. Clair’s shoulder. “Nice work, Robin Hood.”

He puts his arm around me. “Would Maid Marian like to have dinner with Robin this evening?”

I smile. “Only if he doesn’t dine and dash.” St. Clair laughs, his full out genuine laugh that I love so much. “There’s a place I know just up a few blocks. You’ll love it. Trust me.”

We arrive at a tiny hole in the wall on the second floor of a small building where the maître’d knows St. Clair by name and seats us at a window table overlooking the Seine. It’s gorgeous, with dusk settling over the city, the blue-black sky just lighting up with the twinkle of white stars, and across the river, the Eiffel Tower.

I’m so thrilled I actually clap. “The Eiffel Tower!” I take in its perfectly structured form, the tapered metal tower illuminated with golden lights shining brightly against the dark inkiness of the sky. “I’ve wanted to see this my entire life,” I say, feeling a little lost for words. “Ever since I saw a painting of it in a gallery with my mom.”

St. Clair smiles. “I thought you might like this place.”

The waiter brings us two glasses and a bottle of pinot. St. Clair pours us each some wine and raises his glass. “To you, Grace Bennett.”

“To me?” I ask, surprised. “For what?”

He shakes his head, and a serious look comes over his face. “I told you, I’ve always had to keep this part of me a secret.” He gazes at me with a look I’ve never seen in his eyes before—pure honesty. There’s no teasing or the easy charm he’s so good at turning on. This is him being real and I feel the connection between us so strongly, like magnets tuned to each other’s frequency.

“I can’t tell you how good it feels to not have to hide anymore, to be able to share this side of me with you—to let you see all of me, not just the public face I show to the world.” He takes my hand. “You’ve made me so happy, Grace.”

I squeeze his hand. “You’ve made me happy, too. Showed me what life can be like when you live to the fullest. Thank you.”

I realize how lucky I am, to know the joy of finding a person who delights in the same things as you, who understands you fully, down to your soul.

St. Clair lifts his glass. “To us.”

“To adventure,” I say.

“To tonight,” St. Clair winks just like he did the day we met, as we clink our glasses and toast to our future.