Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Forever"
Автор книги: Stella London
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 8 страниц)
CHAPTER 11
The next morning, St. Clair leaves me to go to some meetings – keeping up the charade that he’s just a successful businessman on a trip for work and play. He tells me to relax, go get a spa treatment or take in the Parisian sights, but the moment he’s not around to distract me anymore, all I can do is worry.
I go over our night a million times, wondering if there’s something we missed – something that will give the game away and broadcast our guilt. I keep checking the online news sites, the art blogs, the industry chat rooms where art news is often first revealed for word that our heist has been discovered, but there has been nothing so far. I refresh and refresh like a crazy person, waiting for them to find out that the real painting has gone missing, and there’s a forgery hanging in its place– but all day, it’s nothing but radio silence. Or rather, just excited chatter about the opening tonight and the two exquisite (and rarely seen) paintings on loan from two of Europe’s most important art donors. It should be good news, but I can’t seem to shake this edgy feeling, like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to plummet into the unknown.
I know we were lucky. I was lucky. If those alarms hadn’t been malfunctioning, the sirens would have brought the guards, the police and the media raining down on both of us. I’d be sitting in a prison cell right now instead of a luxurious apartment, dressed in an institutional uniform instead of preparing for a fancy gala event.
It was too close. I can’t put myself or St. Clair at risk like that again. I wanted to see into his secret life, join him in a heist and see justice granted where it was due, but I wound up risking both our lives instead.
I may be a world away from the timid, pushover Grace I was just a few months ago, but I’m not a hardened criminal yet. My nerves can’t take the heat.
Except you did, a little voice whispers in my mind. You stayed cool, you escaped unscathed – and you made sure he got the painting, too.
You got away with everything.
I feel an unfamiliar shiver: triumph, and pride too. I may not be lining up to undertake any more heists, but there’s still a part of me that’s proud of what we did accomplish. And tonight, Crawford will be crowing like he’s got the upper hand – with a fake hanging on the wall behind him all along.
Nobody will know the difference. Nobody except me and St. Clair.
I force myself to shake off the weird foreboding feeling, and get ready for the event. St. Clair thoughtfully left me the address of a beauty salon nearby, so I spend the rest of the afternoon getting primped and blow-dried, until I feel like I can fit in with all the glamorous socialites who’ll be in attendance tonight. By the time he meets me at the front door at eight, I’m transformed, sleek and polished in the red silk dress Paige helped me pick out.
“Wow,” the look of lustful admiration in his eyes makes all my effort worthwhile. St. Clair kisses my collarbone, then my neck, then my ear. “You look stunning,” he whispers in my ear before nibbling on the lobe and stirring up a little heat low in my body.
“Mmm,” I sigh happily. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.”
He guides me down to the limo we have waiting, and opens the door for me gallantly.
“You’re not too shabby yourself,” I tease, straightening his bow tie. He changed at the office, and looks like he just stepped off the red carpet, in a dashing tuxedo.
“I try to keep up.”
The gallery is a short drive, one I feel like I know by heart after our midnight adventures. My pulse speeds as we get closer, memories of last night flashing through my mind. St. Clair takes my hand, as if to calm me. “It’s all smooth sailing from now on,” he reassures me. “Tonight we just play our parts and act normal. It’s all about the art.”
“But what if somebody notices?” I quake. “The forgery—”
“They won’t,” he stops me. “And even if they do, nobody will say a word. It would be a huge scandal. Trust me,” he adds with a grin. “I know people who’ve spent years passing off fakes as the real deal, rather than admit they were fooled. Crawford would never admit he could have bought a forgery, back in the day.”
He twines his fingers through mine as if it’s how our hands were always meant to be.
I try to relax as we arrive at the gallery to an actual red carpet laid out along the marble stepped entrance. There are lights everywhere, camera flashes and spotlights on the who’s who of the art world and European society. We exit the limo to a fit of flashes and microphones in our faces. St. Clair is debonair and gracious, thanking the compliment givers and saying that he’s “just doing what I can to support the gallery and the larger world of art I love so much.”
I grin at him as we make it through the barrage of reporters and art fans. I know by the twinkle in his eye he is enjoying this as much as I am. I didn’t expect it, but it’s a rush having such a huge secret shared, just between the two of us. Nobody has any idea that last night I was trapped behind a security grille in this very gallery, and now I feel like I’m standing at the literal top of the world and looking down at the old me, the nobody me, the me who never would have taken this risk. She looks so small now. “This feels amazing.”
He smiles. “You have no idea how much better it is with you by my side.”
I didn’t think I could feel any higher than I already did, but his last words send me up to cloud nine. “My favorite place to be is by your side,” I tell him honestly. “You make me feel in control, like I can choose my own destiny.”
He squeezes my hand as we pass through the main doors. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Grace, you know that.”
“I do now,” I say as I take in the room.
A rainbow of gown colors stands out in contrast to the sea of black tuxes and white shirts, glamourous society people dressed up for the art opening of the season. Since St. Clair is one of tonight’s stars, I know we won’t have much more alone time together, and I want to tell him something. I pull him aside, out of the stream of people, and look up into his eyes.
“After I lost my mom, I think I gave up a little inside,” I confess, “I let other people make my decisions—about what mattered, what I should do. I just let the world happen to me instead of choosing my own path.” I take a deep breath, feeling emotionally exposed, but wanting him to know how much his support has helped me heal. “You helped bring me back to myself. You reminded me that I have to follow the life I want, and decide what that is for myself.” I lean up and kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”
I can tell he wants to say something, but Marie, the gallery director, interrupts.
“Mr. St. Clair!” she greets us, air kissing me on both cheeks. “Welcome. Everyone wants to meet the great man. Do you have a moment to chat with some press?”
“For you, Marie, anything,” he answers graciously. We’re led into the crowd, and just like always, he’s mobbed with well-wishers, business acquaintances, and society friends. It’s a whirlwind, but I’m getting used to it, and can hold my own, too – chatting about his recent acquisitions and our plans for his collection.
I love being by his side. I understand why he has so many fans, there’s something about his energy that makes you feel like you’re at the center of things, where the action is.
There’s a commotion near the bar, and I see Crawford gesturing wildly to the bartender, who does not look amused. That guy just spreads misery wherever he goes; I’m going to be glad to see him get a taste of his own medicine. He gets his drink and then notices the crowd gathered around St. Clair, and with a look of annoyance he shoves his way across the room to get to us.
“Looks like most of the news outlets that matter have already concluded their interviews for the evening,” he says smugly. “I mean, they interviewed me, so there really wasn’t much left to cover, was there?” He laughs. “I wouldn’t feel bad the TV crews didn’t stick around to talk to you,” Crawford goes on. “I’m sure the media recognizes an industry giant and tastemaker like me, a real rags to riches story of moving up through hard work rather than getting Daddy’s company handed to him as an afterthought.”
Anyone who knows St. Clair is well aware of how hard he worked to expand and improve his father’s company, Crawford included. He’s just goading Charles because he thinks he’s won.
He doesn’t realize that the painting on the wall with his name on it is worthless now.
But St. Clair stays cool. “You’re sounding a bit hoarse—you must have done quite a bit of talking in those interviews! Why don’t we let you rest your voice?” He puts his arm around my waist and leads me away.
“I thought I might be having regrets,” I murmur, “But that jerk deserves it.”
I grab us two flutes of champagne as they float by on a silver tray carried by a waiter. The night I bid on the Rubens for Charles, the night I was the server at a fancy art gala like this, seems like a thousand years ago. How far we’ve come, together.
“To us.” I raise my glass and St. Clair does the same. As we clink and drink, I’m happy enough to sing from the rooftops, but I’ll settle for gazing at my work of art boyfriend. “What’s next?” I ask. “The London trip will be wrapping up soon. Will we be heading back to San Francisco?”
“Yes, eventually, but I was thinking of a detour first.” St. Clair pulls me closer, pressing me near to his statuesque body. “How does the Caribbean sound? You and me and a white sand beach? Clothing optional,” he winks.
“It sounds like heaven,” I sigh. But the look on his face tells me he’s serious. “Wait. Really?”
“I’ll get the tickets booked.” He grins. “I know of this little five-star place, tucked away in St Kitts. Very private…very sexy,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle at my ear.
I feel shivers. This is for real: me, and him, and whatever adventure we want. I can’t believe it, but it’s not just a dream anymore.
For a moment, we’re suspended in our own private world. Then I hear a commotion, coming from across the gallery. St. Clair and I both look up and see a bustle of security guards walking through the room, spreading out into the corners and across the space at various points. My heart starts to beat faster.
Something is wrong.
St. Clair tenses, and I know he feels it too. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he says casually. He starts to lead me through the crowd, strolling toward the door that leads into the hallways, where the storage rooms will provide us with easy exits.
I gulp, and try to act calm. My stomach tangles up in knots, and my mind races. What do they know? Have they found out about the forgery?
“Going somewhere?” A voice makes St. Clair stop short.
It’s Lennox, arms folded, blocking our path.
“Just trying to get a moment alone with my lovely date,” St. Clair says pleasantly, sounding casual. “What brings you across the pond then, agent? Here to get a little culture? It’s a lovely exhibition.”
“Yes, it is.” Lennox holds his stare. “Except for one of the pieces. Word is, it’s a fake.”
My heart stops.
St. Clair arches an eyebrow, still cool. “Really? What a shame. Still, you never know. All kinds of folks out there, trying to pass things off as the real deal.”
“In this case, the owner seems rather rattled by the revelation.” Lennox nods to where Crawford is blustering with some police officers, red-faced and furious.
“And I thought you never took people at their word,” St. Clair shoots back. Lennox snorts, then turns to me for the first time.
“I warned you, Grace.” He almost sounds regretful.
I freeze, my palms starting to sweat. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone was seen leaving the gallery last night. Someone who matches your description.” He pulls out his handcuffs and my jaw drops. This can’t be happening.
“Now wait a minute, there’s clearly been some mistake—” St. Clair tries to block him, but Lennox just nods at a couple of police officers, and they pull St. Clair out of the way.
“Don’t say anything, Grace,” St. Clair calls, struggling. “I promise, this is just a bluff. It’s going to be okay.”
But his voice melts away under the rush of blood pounding in my ears. I can feel everyone watching, the whispers and gasps of scandal.
Lennox moves in and spins me around. I feel the cold, hard sting of metal as he slaps on the handcuffs and locks them shut. “Grace Bennett, you’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER 12
I spend the night shivering on the edge of a cot in a French police cell, still wearing my fancy formal dress. I can’t sleep a wink, and by morning, I’m exhausted, hungry – and scared to death. I’ve spent hours trying not to panic, going over every detail of our heist. I’ve run through what evidence they might have a million times and come up with way too many ideas. DNA traces, hair strands, eyewitnesses, security footage from cameras we might have missed…
I hug my arms around myself and try to be brave. St. Clair said it was just a bluff, and I wish I could believe him. But if he’s wrong…my whole future is on the line. Even if I don’t spend the rest of my life in jail, I’ll never be able to work in the art world again. And Nona will be so disappointed. My mom would be disappointed. The thought makes me sick.
The sun’s early light is filtering in through my barred window by the time a police officer with a jangling set of keys comes to collect me.
“Is a lawyer here?” I leap up eagerly. St. Clair wouldn’t have left me here alone, and I know he’s got to be moving heaven and earth – and a few international treaties too – to get me out. “Can I make my phone call now?”
But the guard just mumbles something in French, and leads me out. I follow him down several long hallways, wincing at my stiff muscles from spending the night shivering on that cot. Eventually, he opens the door to what must be an interview room and nods for me to go inside.
“I need to make a phone call,” I protest. “I have rights, you know.”
The door slams shut behind me. I’m left alone.
I exhale. At least this room is a bit warmer than the cell downstairs, and the plastic chair more comfortable. I sit down, waiting for Lennox, or a lawyer, or even a detective to come and question me, but the seconds tick past.
I try to think logically. What should I say to them? What if I can’t keep my story straight? With every passing minute, I feel my resolve slip, imagining a life behind bars, with no parole.
Stop it, Grace.
I take a few deep breaths and try to stay calm. This is exactly what they want: me freaking out and ready to spill my guts. Haven’t I seen it enough on cop shows on TV? Leave the suspect to stew until finally someone walks in and offers them a deal. But if they think the alone time is going to make me crack, they’re wrong. When your mom has cancer, you spend a lot of time waiting for answers.
Right on cue, the door finally opens, and Lennox walks in.
“Sorry about the wait,” he says, juggling two steaming Styrofoam cups and a bakery box in his hands. “I got called away. How are you doing? Hungry?”
He places the food down in front of me. Fresh croissants and pain au chocolat, smelling amazing. And is that…?
“Coffee,” he says, nudging the cup closer to me. “And not from a vending machine either. The French know how to brew a proper latte, I’ll give them that.”
He notices me shivering in my silk dress. “Here, take my jacket. You may as well get comfortable, we could be here a while.”
He drapes his jacket around my bare shoulders, then settles in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
“Mmm, I need this,” he sighs, taking a long gulp of coffee, and tearing off a corner of croissant. “I’ve been up all night with the evidence logs. You guys were thorough, I’ll give you that, but nobody leaves a crime scene completely clean.”
He leans back, eating. Casual, friendly – and totally unlike the stubborn agent I thought I knew.
He’s playing good cop. I narrow my eyes and press my lips together.
At this moment I want nothing more than to tell him where to shove his pastries, but the smell is too good, and I haven’t had a meal since yesterday. My stomach lets out a loud rumble, and I reach for the croissant. The buttery pastry melts in my mouth, and I inhale the whole thing in three bites. I gulp half the coffee, too, and begin to feel like a person again. I’m about to thank him when I remember who put me here.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, and carefully sip my coffee, deciding to keep quiet and see where this goes.
Lennox finishes his pastry before leaning back and giving me a friendly look. “Here’s the thing, Grace. I don’t care about you right now. I’m after bigger fish, and you know that, so it’s time to come clean. Tell me everything and you can go free.”
I decide to call his bluff. “What if I’m guilty?”
Lennox snorts. “I know you just got caught up in St. Clair’s games. I’ve interviewed enough witnesses to know that he can be quite persuasive. Maybe he made you think this was all a game, a fun little adventure. But it’s not. These are serious offenses, a serious crime. Do you understand?”
Better than he can imagine, but I force myself to just keep breathing. Surely if he has evidence against me, he would be using it by now?
“You’ve had it out for St. Clair from the start,” I say quietly. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
I hate lying, but this is true, in a way. What we did may have been technically illegal, but I still believe we did the right thing to get back at Crawford. That Armande belongs to St. Clair’s family.
“Oh no?” Lennox goes in for the kill. “Then why are your fingerprints all over the crime scene? It doesn’t look too good.”
I freeze, my heart stuttering in panic, but then I remember. “I was at the gallery for the party, and before then, too. St. Clair and I had a guided tour, we oversaw the delivery of his exhibit. I must have touched a dozen things.”
Lennox scowls. “And where were you the night before the opening?”
“With St. Clair.” I stand firm; it’s the truth. I don’t have to tell him what we were doing. “We were together all night.”
He remains unconvinced. “How convenient.”
The good cop routine must be wearing thin, because now Lennox glares at me. “You know, at first I thought you were a smart girl, Grace. But standing by a man who will give you up to save his own ass is incredibly stupid.”
“What do you mean, give me up?” I frown.
“Didn’t you know?” Lennox smirks. “St. Clair’s in the other room right now, telling us everything. I wanted to see if I could cut a deal with you, get you out of this before he sold you out completely, but I guess it’s too late now.”
I stare at him, notice the tension in the hand he’s clinging to the table with, and suddenly, my fears are gone. He really is bluffing.
“St. Clair would never do that,” I say.
Lennox leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’re not the first woman to believe a man’s lies. You can’t trust a thief, Grace. They are all liars.”
I look Lennox in the eye. “He doesn’t lie to me.”
Lennox scrapes back his chair and heads for the door. “Just ask yourself: are you willing to bet your future on him?”
I don’t even need to think it over.
“Always,” I vow. Lennox snorts, and then he’s gone.
I’m stuck waiting in the interview room another hour, so I figure I may as well finish off those croissants. Now that my panic has passed, I’m feeling better. Lennox really is clutching at straws here. Still, it makes me wonder: will he ever give up?
He’s followed St. Clair halfway across the world, stalked him at every turn…even if St. Clair never pulled another heist, and reformed to live as a good, law-abiding citizen, Lennox would be right there behind us, lurking, waiting for some reason to pounce.
Just how far will he go to bring St. Clair down?
Eventually, the door opens. It’s Lennox again. He doesn’t look happy.
Another man pushes past him, small and French. “I’m so sorry for the delay, mademoiselle,” he gushes. “Please, come this way.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Wherever you wish. You’re free to go,” he explains.
I look at Lennox, but he’s scowling at the floor. Clearly, he’s been overruled.
I stand and lift my chin, perking up already. “Finally.”
“Again, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.” The short man glares at Lennox, then ushers me out to the front lobby of the police station. I can hear a familiar voice as we get closer—it’s St. Clair, sounding furious.
“…I’ll be lodging a formal complaint. This is unacceptable—”
“Monsieur St. Clair.” The Frenchman rushes forward, raising his hands in apology. “Please, there’s no need to shout. Your friend is safe and well, and free to go.”
St. Clair sees me, and rushes to pull me into his arms. He holds me tightly, and I lean into his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s fine.” I pull away. “Everything’s okay.” I look around at all the cops, and people, and reporters jostling by the doors. “I just want to get out of here.”
“Right away.”
“I wouldn’t go too far,” Lennox says, planting himself in front of us. “I still need to reach you for questioning.”
St. Clair looks like he wants to land a swift right hook on the agent’s face, but I’m too tired to deal with anything more. The events of the past 24 hours hit hard, and I have to hold on to St. Clair tightly to keep from falling over.
“Please,” I whisper, “No more fighting. Just take me home.”
“Of course.”
He wraps a protective arm around me, and leads me through the chaos.
