Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Hearts"

Автор книги: Stella London

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

I can’t believe it. He really doesn’t care about the names and labels.

“It’s getting late,” he says, looking up at the dusky sky. “How would you feel about staying the night out here rather than driving back? I have a place nearby.”

Blood rushes to turn my face beet-red faster than I can form a complete thought. “Oh.” OMG is more like it. Did he just ask me to spend the night?

“I have plenty of guestrooms available,” he says quickly, but there’s a moment when our eyes catch. Electric.

A night alone with him, away from everything…it’s tempting, unpredictable, and probably way out of my depth. But being around him makes me want to take a risk.

“Yes,” I tell him, and take the leap. “I’ll stay.”

CHAPTER 10

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting—some kind of English castle—but when we drive around the hill and pull up in front of St. Clair’s place, I find a modern, sleek house. It’s really more of an estate, a huge glass, steel, and stone building nestled in the hills above a beautiful vineyard.

“Your place is gorgeous,” I breathe, following him through the front door. It’s all open plan, with massive windows looking out over the hills. The kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment, a spacious expanse of stainless steel appliances and a wide granite-topped island.

I turn to take it all in, and then I see it: a real-life Rothko painting on the wall. My jaw drops. “This was at the LACMA last year. I wanted to go so badly. How did you get it?” I almost squeal when I get close. “The color in this is exquisite.”

St. Clair smiles. Then I notice a de Koons. And oh my God. “Is that a real Andy Warhol?!” I exclaim, running over to look. “Oh my God, it is!” I hear the excitement in my voice and force myself to stop, painfully aware I’m swooning like a teenage girl at a boyband show. “Sorry, I’ve never seen anyone actually own art like this. It’s always just been in galleries and museums.”

But St. Clair doesn’t seem to mind my enthusiasm. “No, it’s great. Most people don’t even notice the art itself, they just want to clock the artist and the value and move on.”

“This is an incredible collection.” I look around some more, a giddy lightness coming into my chest as I examine each piece, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I stop when I see him staring at me again.

“Don’t stop,” he says, grinning proudly. “Feel free to babble away. I’m so happy to share these pieces with someone who cares.”

“It’s a shame that people like that guy Andrew who almost won your painting—”

“My stolen painting—” St. Clair adds with a teasing grin.

“Yes. Well, that people like that can buy a masterpiece they don’t love,” I exclaim.

“And then store it in the cellar like a block of cheese getting pricier with age,” St. Clair continues.

“Right! That’s a tragedy,” I say, and mean it. “God, If I had a Picasso or a Rubens, or a Rothko, I’d put it on display, like you.” I mean, I’d put him on display, too, but I gesture to his walls, painted plain white so the art can stand out. “Somewhere I could stare at it all day long.”

“Art is meant to be seen,” Charles says and I smile. “What?” he asks.

“My mom always said that,” I confide.

“Smart woman,” he says. “Just like her daughter.”

Our eyes lock, and I feel the heat pulse between us again. Then somewhere, a clock chimes and the moment is broken. “Let me show you to the guest suite,” he says and I follow him up a staircase to the second floor.

The carpet is so plush it muffles our footsteps as St. Clair leads me to a huge master suite, perfect as a hotel penthouse. “Here we are. Is this okay?” he asks.

I try not to laugh. There’s a king-size bed, and through the door to the bathroom, I can see a tub big enough for the whole di Fiore family. It’s so luxurious, I never want to leave. “I think I’ll manage.”

He chuckles. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour. Relax, make yourself at home.” He closes the door behind him, leaving me alone.

Wow. The décor is stunning—more thick carpet and elegant curtains and bedding, satin sheets and a beautiful quilt stitched with blue and silver patterns that looks like a work of art. Did he have this made up for me, or is he always prepared with an exquisite guest suite in case he decides to bring a girl home?

Huge windows look out over a private patio and the vineyards beyond. It’s like I’m dreaming, except that kiss in the elevator was definitely real, and hot, and he invited me here, alone, which is also not a dream. I’m in Charles St. Clair’s house, about to have dinner with just him. The thought sends shivers of nervous anticipation down my spine.

I head to the bathroom and fill the massive tub with hot water and lavender scented bubble bath. He said to make myself at home and a long luxurious bath sounds like just the ticket after the stress of today and our long drive. I undress and slide into the water, loving the feel of the bubbles and hot water on my skin. For once, I don’t have anywhere to go, or anything to do: no waitressing shift, or job interview, no boss demanding my time, I can just lay back and breathe it all in.

After a while, I worry about being late to dinner so I stand and wrap a towel around me. Then it hits me: I only have my work clothes from before to wear! It feels wrong to be putting my boring blouse and suit back on for a romantic dinner, but as I step into the bedroom, I notice a dress has been laid out on the bed. It’s a simple blue sundress that looks like it will hug my curves but still be comfortable. I’ve got to give the guy credit. He has good taste in everything.

For a moment, I wonder why he has brand new women’s clothing on hand, but I push the thought aside. My make-up is a bit faded, but my cheeks are pink with the heat of the bath and thoughts of what tonight might bring, so at least my face has some color, and my eyeliner has smudged in an I-just-happened-to-sleep-in-my-make-up-and-wake-up-looking-sexy way that I could never have pulled off if I’d tried to achieve it. Not bad, Gracie. Already, something smells delicious downstairs, so I get dressed, take a deep breath and head out to face St. Clair again.

“Hello?” I call, looking around the empty living area.

“Out here.”

St. Clair’s voice comes from outside, so I follow the sound out to the terrace. It’s breathtaking. There are twinkling candles, and a rustic table with a white tablecloth has been set with two places. Beyond the terrace, the sunset has splashed an array of colors across the sky, lighting up the clouds and turning them a fiery orange-pink-purple-gold mix. But none of that takes my breath away like the sight of St. Clair. He’s changed into worn, casual jeans that hug his ass just right, with a white shirt open at the neck and his feet bare on the flagstones. He looks relaxed, at ease, and good enough to eat.

“You look great in that dress,” he says, greeting me with a light kiss on the cheek. “I had to guess your size, but I figured it would fit. And I know you like blue, so…”

“Thank you, it’s perfect.”

“You’re very welcome. I like to keep some things here for guests.”

So he does have women here all the time! I try to hide my disappointment, but it must show on my face because St. Clair adds, “Guests like my sister. She and her family like to come stay at the estate during vacations.”

“Oh,” I say, secretly filling with relief at not being just another interchangeable ‘guest’ he brings up for a night. “That sounds nice. I bet they love it here.”

“That they do. Are you ready to eat?” he asks.

“Yes, please!” I reply right away. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and it feels a lifetime ago.

He chuckles. “Then I won’t stand between you and your meal.”

He pulls out my chair for me and I sit, my eyes drawn to the sunset’s changing colors across the sky. “It’s like a living painting.” I sigh, taking in the views.

“I bought this place because of it,” he says, lifting the silver serving domes and revealing a simple green salad with arugula and shaved parmesan, and two perfectly grilled steaks.

“This smells delicious.” I take a bite of the steak. It is delicious. “Wow. Is there anything you can’t do?”

He laughs as he pours us sparkling water from a glass carafe. “I like cooking. It helps me unwind. What about you?”

“I leave all the cooking to the experts downstairs.” I smile at his confused expression. “I live above an Italian restaurant,” I explain, “So most nights I just grab some food from there. Nona likes to keep me fed.”

“So what do you like to do for fun? To relax?” he asks, spooning a lemon and olive oil dressing over our salad.

“Sleep?” It sounds like a joke but that is what I do with a lot of my free time.

He laughs again. “No, really,” he prompts me. “What helps you relieve stress, get back to yourself?”

I take a breath. “Well, painting used to feel like an escape.”

“Not anymore?”

I shrug. “It’s been hard to feel inspired since I lost my mom.”

He nods thoughtfully as he chews. “Do you want to paint professionally?”

“Maybe,” I say, pushing food around my plate. “As much as anyone can, I guess. Making a living as an artist isn’t exactly stable.”

“Ah, but then at least you’re following your passion!” His whole face lights up with energy. “Imagine the life you could live, traveling the world, studying with masters…”

“Living on the streets…” I add and he stops to look at me quizzically. “That sounds wonderful, but I don’t have the money, or a patron like they did in the Renaissance.”

“I get it. But doesn’t it make you feel stifled, to ignore your true love?”

I try to smile. “It’s hard to pursue my art when I have to work to pay the bills.”

He pauses, looking at me across the table. “You should try to find the time, Grace, or someday you won’t recognize yourself. You’ll look at your life and wonder when you stopped feeling alive.”

Is that what happened to you? I want to ask. There’s something in his eyes that feels regretful, but I don’t want to bring the mood down. “Thank you,” I say instead.

He seems surprised. “What for?”

I gesture to the dinner, our almost empty plates, the vineyard, the darkening sky. “Today has been amazing. And not just today,” I add. “Ever since I met you…I don’t know, I feel different, somehow. More alive.”

I can’t believe I just said that, but St. Clair’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Today’s not over yet,” he says in a sexy, low voice.

I flush.

He begins to gather our empty plates.

“Let me help with that,” I say, picking up the salad bowl. “I am, after all, the most experienced waitress in the house right now.”

In the kitchen, we pile dishes in the sink. I begin to rinse them off. “You don’t have to do that,” he stops me, reaching his arms around me to turn off the water.

I freeze, his body pressed gently against my back, his breath warm at the nape of my neck.

“I don’t?” I can feel the heat of his body against mine, the sweet smell of his aftershave as he lifts my hair off my shoulder and drops a kiss on the side of my neck.

I exhale in a shiver.

“You’ve done enough for me today.”

My breath catches as he spins me around to face him, his blue eyes piercing. “Let me do something for you,” he says and he kisses me, slow at first and then deep, his lips demanding against mine until I open and let him in.

His tongue teases me, and I wrap my arms around to his muscled back and drag him closer. Our kisses become faster, deeper, and I’m shocked by the feelings racing through me. The fire, the heat, the connection, the need.

It’s like nothing I’ve felt before.

His hands grip my hips and pull me gently into him. He grazes his lips down my neck, over my shoulders, down to the neckline of the dress, sending shivers down my body, goosebumps across my skin, every inch of it aching to be touched, stroked.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, easing back to cup my cheek and gaze into my eyes. His eyes are dark with lust, the same desire ricocheting through my body and gathering into a knot between my thighs. “I want to look at you.”

He slips his hands under the straps of my dress, lifting them off my shoulders. I meet his gaze, and he steps back to watch as I push the dress down my hips and it slips down to the floor.

I catch a shaky breath. I’m standing here in just my lace panties and bra, but I feel worshipped; adored. St. Clair looks at me so reverently, I feel like a work of art.

He leans in and kisses a trail along my collarbone, his hands moving to stroke and cup my breasts. I moan at the delicious contact, arching against him.

“Your turn,” I gasp, reaching for his shirt. I undo the buttons and push it aside, kissing the expanse of golden muscular chest until St. Clair suddenly lifts me and carries me to the dining table. He lays me down, so I’m spread to him, on display, and my stomach flips again.

As anticipation races through me, St. Clair takes his time, clearly enjoying the way he’s going so slowly. He leans over and removes my bra, glides his mouth over my left nipple, teasing at the right with his thumb. I moan as he toys with me, trailing his lips and tongue down my stomach and across my hips. He uses his teeth to tug the top of my lace panties down, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic band and pulls the them off, leaving me entirely naked.

I’m too caught up in the heat of it to care, feeling every touch and kiss like wildfire on my skin. He slides his fingertips up my thighs, and I feel like my cells will burst with desire.

He nudges my legs apart and I’m close to begging him to touch me. Please, just touch me. Still, St. Clair keeps up his slow and steady pace. He kisses my thighs, teases the sensitive skin with his tongue, slipping his hands under my ass to cup the cheeks. He drags his tongue up my inner thigh, slowly, up, up, until finally he slides the wet tip lightly along my clit, just grazing like the lightest brushstroke. I groan, arching my back and he dips his tongue deeper into me this time. “Yes…” I whisper, reveling in the sensation.

His hands keep me pinned in place as his tongue slowly strokes over me again, then again, an artist fervent in his work, painting with thick, long, wet strokes, becoming more and more impassioned. I arch my back to meet his mouth, spread my legs as his tongue paints me with his vision. Slick and kinetic shorter strokes, harder strokes, building the paint in layers, the pressure building, tightening, pulsing, rising to a throbbing peak…OhGod. OhGod—

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I cry out, calling his name as the climax rips through me, sweetness and heat exploding in a dazzling masterpiece that leaves me breathless, spent. Undone.

CHAPTER 11

I roll over and stretch out in the softest sheets I’ve ever been on, but they are unfamiliar. I hear a shower running and my eyes shoot open, taking in a big bed in a plush bedroom, and an en suite bathroom letting out soapy-scented steam. Then it all comes flooding back: I’m at St. Clair’s. Charles’. The man who gave me the best orgasm of my life last night.

My cheeks heat up as I remember it all, every last detail, and I feel the flush moving lower as I imagine returning the favor someday.

But maybe this was just a one-time thing? I don’t have much experience with those. Just once, with a guy I met at a party my first semester at college. I was so embarrassed afterward that I left his dorm at five am and did the walk of shame home as the sun was beginning to rise. Here, I don’t have that option, because I’m lounging in luxury, literally, in million thread count sheets in a king-size bed on the Napa estate of a billionaire. What have I gotten myself into?

Charles is humming in the shower, a tune I don’t recognize, and I can’t help but smile. Adorable. He’s clearly relaxed, which makes this whole what-the-hell-do-I-say-to-a-guy-who-has-heard-my-O-noises-but-doesn’t-know-where-I-live thing extra awkward. The shower stops and I wonder what I’m going to say to him. I wish I could read his mind.

“Hey,” Charles says, coming out of the bathroom looking devastatingly sexy with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His chest muscles are perfectly shaped, leading down into abs chiseled from stone, a trail of hair leading down even farther. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless in the light and I’m worried I might start drooling. “Did you sleep okay?”

I swallow. “Yes, great. Thank you. ”

He rubs a smaller towel over his wet hair. “It sure sounded that way from your snores.”

I gasp. “I don’t snore!”

“You do,” he grins, tossing the hair towel into a hamper, his other towel slipping low enough for me to see his the top of his hip bones. “Quietly. It’s adorable.”

I frown. “Yeah. Like ‘picking your nose’ is adorable.”

“Wait, do you do that, too?” He smiles and I throw a pillow at him, laughing.

He goes into a huge closet, with hanging suits and a dresser and more that I can’t see from the bed. “Listen, I’d love to stay and eat breakfast with you, but I have to get to L.A. for a meeting,” he says. “My car is waiting for you downstairs to take you to the city. You should be back in time for work.” He comes out of the closet wearing slacks and an unbuttoned blue shirt, four different ties draped over his arm. He holds them up against his shirt. “Which do you think?”

“The blue,” I decide.

Charles grins. “Of course.”

“How many do you have in there?” I ask.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Why? Are you going to ruin all of them? Maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone with all these innocent victims.” He flashes me another grin just as my stomach rumbles.

He laughs again. “Perfect timing. I’ll see you downstairs.” Then he disappears out the door.

I get dressed quickly, use the bathroom to freshen up, and head downstairs just as he is coming out of the kitchen with a thermos of coffee, a warm croissant wrapped in wax paper, and a bottle of orange juice. He tucks them into my purse with a wink.

“Thanks,” I say, my mind going blank. “Um, that was fun last night.”

“Fun?” his voice drops, sexy. He moves closer, reaching to stroke along my collarbone. “I was thinking more ‘mind-blowingly sexy.’”

My pulse races. “That too.”

There’s a noise outside, a dull roar. St. Clair gives a rueful smile. “That’s my cue.”

I follow him out, in time to see a helicopter appear above the trees. An actual helicopter. “Wow, you really go big to get away from your dates,” I say, giggling so he knows it’s a joke, but also wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

He leans over and kisses me, soft and deep. I melt against him, until finally, he pulls away. A car is waiting with a driver. “I have a busy week ahead,” he says. “But I’d like to see you next weekend?”

“I’d like that too.”

He smiles. “I’ll call you.” He kisses me again, and then heads away toward the helicopter. I watch him effortlessly climb inside, and then a moment later, it rises up over the treeline and buzzes off into the distance.

The ride back to the city is much less interesting without Charles to look at. Despite the fog rolling across the bay, I feel content and excited to see where this thing with Charles goes. Imagine, less than a week ago I was desperately trying to claw my way into the art world, and now I’ve been flung into it headfirst, romantically and professionally. I helped with an appraisal yesterday! I feel proud as the driver drops me off in front of Carringer’s, and I hold my head high as I walk through the doors.

My pride doesn’t last long. “Thank God you’re here.” Stanford materializes the minute I’m inside.

“How do you do that?” I ask. “Just appear, like you knew I’d be here.”

“I’m omniscient,” he cracks. “Now I need you in the basement today, the police left everything a mess. Start with the floors, and work your way up.”

I sigh. So much for feeling on top of the world. “Okay, okay.”

I’m glad that at least my day-old clothes won’t be noticed if I’m scrubbing floors. I take my cleaning supplies up the back stairs and begin the first day of a week of sweeping, mopping, and wiping down walls, but despite the drudgery of my tasks, nothing can shake my happy glow. I have memories of St. Clair to keep me company as I clean: his smile, that body, his tongue…

I don’t hear from him all week, and by Friday, I’m wondering if I should be worried. I know it’s probably just that he has so much else to deal with, that his lack of contact doesn’t mean he’s no longer interested, but I can’t help getting anxious. I mean, he runs an international finance corporation! He must be juggling a million balls at a time, right?

Right?

Everyone seems on edge at work, too. Stanford is wound so tight that even me yawning makes him snap. “If there is something you’d rather be doing, Grace, by all means, go ahead and do it.”

“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ll get back to work right away.”

“We don’t need any attitude,” he says. “Not today.”

“Did something else happen?” I’ve noticed lots of stressed out looking people running around here this week, plenty of hushed conversation in hallways that break up when someone passes. But even with the insurance spike, this seems like something bigger.

“You mean on top of a robbery that’s left our international reputation in tatters?” he asks, sarcastic.

I guess not. “Do the police have any leads yet?”

“Nothing.” Stanford sighs. “And I’m sorry for snapping at you, it’s just the members of the board are seriously worked up over this theft, and they’re taking it out on Lydia, and guess who she’s taking it out on?”

“You.”

“Exactly. I’d stay out of her way, if I were you,” he adds, glancing around as if Lydia’s about to come striding through on the warpath. “She’s got that look in her eyes, like she hasn’t eaten carbs all week and is just itching to fire someone.”

“Thanks, I’ll try.”

I stay hidden down in the basement, cleaning for the rest of the day, but I can’t help check my phone every five seconds. St. Clair said he’d call before the weekend, but Friday afternoon is cutting it awfully close, isn’t it?

Finally, my phone rings. I jump, heart racing, hoping it’s him, but it’s Paige instead, calling via a long-distance app from London. “Hey, you!” I exclaim happily, putting down my mop and sitting on a rolling crate.

“She’s alive!” Paige laughs. “I’ve been waiting all week to talk, but you’re never online anymore.”

I groan. “I know, sorry. This place has me working all hours, and then I’m pulling night shifts waitressing at the restaurant too.”

“It’s okay, I just wanted to see how you’re doing at your shiny new job. Things must be crazy there after the robbery,” she adds.

“How do you know about that?” I ask. No wonder everyone’s tense; they were trying to keep it hush-hush, but obviously the word’s gotten out.

“The painting was insured with my company,” Paige explains. “They don’t want to have to take the hit and pay out.”

“People are freaking out here, too,” I tell her, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“Is St. Clair upset?” she asks.

“No. He seems weirdly calm about the whole thing.”

“I guess he didn’t actually lose any money on it, lucky bastard.”

“He loved that painting, Paige. It’s not about the money. He’s…not like you think.”

Something in my voice must have given me away, because she sucks in a breath and squeals. “What happened?” Paige demands. “Tell me everything!”

“What? No!” I say, wondering how she knew. “Nothing happened!”

“Oh my God, you little minx!” She laughs. “Don’t even try to deny it—you know you can’t keep anything from me. I want details.”

I finally giggle. “Okay, something did happen. It was amazing—”

I stop. Lydia is standing in the doorway, looking furious. Shit. “I have to go, Paige. Call you back.” I hang up and jump to my feet.

“Taking personal calls at work?” Lydia gives me an icy glare.

“I’m sorry,” I say pocketing my phone. “It won’t happen again.” I grab my mop. “I’ll get right back to work.” I’m realizing this is the second time I’ve been caught off my game at work today, and a wave of guilt washes over me.

“Wait.” Lydia’s voice stops me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I pause. Is this a trick question? “Umm, mopping?”

She sneers. “I can see that. The question is, with what?”

I stare at her, totally confused. “A mop?”

“These!” Lydia yells, kicking at the bottles of cleaning solution with her pointy-toe pumps. “Are you an idiot, using harsh chemicals in rooms where the art is stored? Do you know the kind of damage you can do? Even just releasing the toxins into the air can damage the canvas!”

My heart races. “No, these are the supplies I was told to use.” By Stanford, I silently add, but I don’t want to get him in trouble too right now, so I just stay quiet.

“Those are for the lobby! For the offices!” Lydia’s face turns pink and she points a white-tipped nail at my face. “There are special products for these rooms. Everyone knows that.” She glowers at me. “Or everyone should.”

I feel like the idiot she thinks I am, getting yelled at like I’m back in kindergarten and I accidentally took someone’s crayons. But this time I know she’s wrong. “Lydia, these are the correct chemicals,” I say quietly. “If you just check with—”

“Do you think I don’t know the difference?” she cuts me off.

“No, of course, not. I just think—”

“You just think you know better than I do?” Her face is deep red now, her eyes squinted in anger, and this seems so overblown, I think something else must have happened to make everyone so jumpy, so upset. It’s probably best to keep my mouth shut until this all blows over.

I bow my head, treat her like an angry animal: don’t look it in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“Sorry won’t re-clean all these storage rooms, will it?” she says, her voice icy. “We have a whole new shipment of artifacts coming in tomorrow. Where are we going to put them now?”

“I’ll do them all over,” I say. “I can stay late and come in early.”

Lydia scoffs. “You’ve already proven yourself incompetent.” She takes a deep breath and looks me up and down. “No, I’ve had enough of you. This is it. You’re fired.”

My heart stops. What?

“No, please Lydia, let me make it up to you.” This can’t be happening. It’s only been a week! “I’m better than this, I swear.” Tears are building up behind my eyes. This so isn’t fair.

“Swearing isn’t a result, and your results, since the beginning, have been less than stellar.” She puts out her hand. “Your badge, please.”

Slowly, I pull it from my pocket and hold it out to her. It wasn’t much, just a slip of laminated card with my photo and name, but to me, it represented so much more: my ticket to the career of my dreams.

Lydia takes it and shoves it in her purse before giving me another snooty glare. “And don’t even think about asking for a reference. As far as I’m concerned, I was right the first time. You’re not the sort of person we want in the art world.”

She stalks out, leaving me along with the mess of cleaning supplies and a half-mopped floor. A failure.

My dream is over before it even began.