Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Hearts"
Автор книги: Stella London
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 7 страниц)
CHAPTER 12
I get off the bus early and walk a few extra blocks home to help clear my head, but it doesn’t help. I trudge through the streets, noticing all the garbage in the gutters, the graffiti on the walls. I love this neighborhood, but right now it feels like all beauty has been taken from the world.
I walk past Giovanni’s and stop for a minute, peeking inside like a window shopper. I watch Carmella serve a family of eight, meatballs for almost everyone, and she smiles as she grates fresh parmesan over their plates. Jimmy opens a bottle of wine for a couple, and Fred sticks his head out of the kitchen window at the back to call an order I can’t hear. I don’t see Nona or Giovanni, but I know they’re in there, somewhere, their hearts full of love they never hesitate to share. If I go in there and break the bad news, they’ll surround me with love and support, but right now I just want to be alone.
I move away from the window before anyone can see me and go around back, climbing the stairs past my apartment and onto the fire escape that leads up onto the roof. It’s a place where I go to think, and from up here I can see the top of Coit Tower, its gray-white top sticking up through the fog like a sentry; the ocean in the distance, blanketed by banks of churning fog.The tears I've been holding back finally spill down my cheeks. Is it too late for me, Mom? Am I just never going to make it, either as an artist, or in the art world at all? Carringer’s was the only place that had even called me back in over a year. I’ve struck out at every gallery and auction house in the Bay Area, and then when I was given this gift, this huge opportunity at the most prestigious auction house in the area, I blew it.
Maybe I’m just not cut out for that world. Maybe Lydia and Chelsea were right, and I’m not good enough, don’t have the right eye or credentials. Aren’t all the rejections a sign that I don’t have the chops, that I don’t belong? How much longer can I try to convince myself that someday I’ll make it, when the world keeps telling me to give up?
I hear the metal of the fire escape scraping against the brick of the building and I know someone is coming up. “Give it up Eddie,” I start, but it’s St. Clair’s head that appears.
I stare at him in shock. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, hello to you, too,” he says, climbing up to join me on the roof. He grins. “Miss me?”
He leans in for a kiss, but my head is still too cluttered to respond.
“They told me downstairs where to find you. What’s her name—Nona, she seemed particularly happy to see me. I could hardly get away. She said something about her eggplant parmigiana…”
I smile, shaking my head. That woman knows everything. “She likes to feed everyone who steps through those doors.”
“She clearly loves you,” he says, smiling. “They all do.”
I nod, fighting my tears again. They’ve been so supportive and now I have to tell them I failed. St. Clair’s smile slips as he sees my face. He gently brushes my tears away.
“Grace, what’s wrong?”
I take a breath, willing my voice to come out steady. “I lost my job at Carringer’s today.”
“What?” He looks surprised. “What happened?”
I tell him about Lydia yelling at me, and telling me I wasn’t good enough. He looks furious, like he wants to march right back to the auction house and give her a piece of his mind. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll call in the morning, there’s no way she can behave like that.”
“No!” I yelp. “You can’t. And she can. She’s the boss.” I give a sad sigh. “Thank you for wanting to help, but I’m done there.”
“Maybe this is a good thing, then. You’ll find something else,” St. Clair insists.
I shake my head. “What if I’m just not good enough for a job in the art world?”
“That’s ridiculous,” he argues. “You spotted a forgery last weekend!”
“And your fancy art dealers didn’t believe me.”
“You are more than good enough, Grace,” he says, taking my hand. “Those guys, Lydia, all those people who dismissed your talents, they’re too jaded by image and status—they can’t see what really matters underneath.”
He means it too, I can see it in his eyes. I wonder how he can believe in me like this, when he barely knows me at all.
“You have an incredible eye, Grace, and passion, which is the most important thing.”
“Hiring committees don’t seem to agree with you.”
“Well this hiring committee is ready to offer you a job.”
I blink. What is he talking about? “What job?”
“As my personal art consultant.” St. Clair smiles.
I back away. He’s crazy. Art consultant gigs are the most prized jobs of all: to advise private clients on their purchases, help build collections and work with museums. You have to have years of experience, the best connections…I shake my head. “Please, don’t joke.”
St. Clair frowns. “I mean it. I need someone advising me, and I trust your judgment more than anyone when it comes to art. You don’t have an agenda, you’re not swayed by status or trends. What do you say?”
I gape at him, his words finally sinking in. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as a German painting.” St. Clair grins, boyish and charming. “Think about it. You’d travel the world, helping to curate my collection and expand my holdings. Paris, Rome, Prague…didn’t you say you always wanted to travel?”
“Well, yes,” I stammer, “I just never thought…”
“What, that you could have everything you wanted?” St. Clair smiles. “Why not?
Why not…? He doesn’t realize, the world doesn’t work like that, not for people like me.
Except he’s offering it, isn’t he? The most amazing opportunity, better than any gallery job or internship by far. This would be real, the chance of a lifetime, and my heart races just thinking about it. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, overwhelmed.
“I haven’t even told you the starting salary yet.” St. Clair winks and names a six-figure number that’s more money than I can even imagine in one place, much less in my possession. “Plus, of course, you’d have access to a business expense account and the use of my private jet while you traveled.”
“Wow,” I say, too stunned to say anything else. I’m about to accept when it occurs to me that maybe this is some way to make me a kept woman, the kind of mistress who follows him around and is waiting obediently in the hotel whenever he gets back from work.
I pause. No matter how sexy and charming he is, I won’t put a price on myself like that.
“Is it too much?” St. Clair asks, frowning.
“No,” I say. “I just…I wonder about mixing business with pleasure, that’s all. I mean, the two of us, what happened in Napa…” I feel myself flush. “Because if you’re only giving me the job because we’re involved, or if you’ll be expecting me to—”
“Grace, please,” he stops me. “This isn’t about us. I mean, I would absolutely like to keep seeing you,” he adds, intertwining his fingers in mine. “Getting to know you, all of you…” His gaze turns suggestive for a moment, and I feel the heat between us all over again. “But I would want you to be my art consultant even if you had no interest in our being romantically involved. Please believe me. You’re exactly the right person for this job.”
“Really?” A weight lifts from my mind.
“Really. You are knowledgeable and passionate, with an amazing eye and a gut instinct that can’t be bought, and I want you to help make my art collection the envy of the world.”
I laugh, relieved. “That won’t be hard. You already have some brilliant pieces.”
“But art is everywhere,” he says, and I catch my breath at hearing my mom’s words come out of his mouth. It’s like a sign. “And I want us to find it together.”
A flock of seagulls flies past us, heading out toward the horizon, where there seems to be no limit, no end as the blue of the sky meets the blue of the ocean in a blur of shading, a painter’s study of color.
Moments like this, I realize, don’t come around often. I have to seize the chance: jump without looking, without hesitation, and see where the fall takes me.
“Then I’ll do it,” I tell him. “I’ll take the job.”
Charles clasps my hands and smiles into my eyes, and as I smile back at him I realize that all my dreams are finally within reach.
TO BE CONTINUED …
What happens next? Grace and St. Clair’s whirlwind romance continues in THE ART OF STEALING KISSES – Available October 14, 2015
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Hunter Knox comes straight up – with a side of trouble! Meet the bourbon heir making life complicated for ad girl Ally in BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST –
Available now!
ONE
So a girl walked into a bar.
It wasn’t a joke, it was my life.
Which, actually, now that I think about it, sometimes feels like the same thing. No comments, please.
Besides, tonight was the beginning of my new life. It was the first step in a direction I’d wanted to go for a long damn time. So where was I? Ah, yes. I walked into a bar.
It was a nice bar, at least. In fact, it was really a lot nicer than any bar at a mid-range hotel—the only one my supervisors were willing to spring for—in a mid-range part of Charleston had any right to be.
The lighting was soft, but not so much so that I couldn’t read the print on the bottles, glowing yellow and orange lamps bringing out the warmth of the polished walnut bar and booths, as well as the striking red brick of the walls and the paintings that adorned them. Some kind of mournful violin music was piping over the sound system, just loud enough to make itself felt and give the chatting patrons a bit of privacy.
A profile caught my eye, a man silhouetted by the soft golden light, facing away from me. I admired the strong lines of his shoulders and the way that his auburn hair caught slivers of light even in the semi-darkness, throwing out glints of gold like sparks in a low-burning fire. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he turned. Before I could look away, our eyes met, and a shock of electricity pierced through the distance between us.
Those eyes…deep and knowing, traveling across my face before wandering down my body and back up again, slow and leisurely as if he could feel every inch of me through his gaze alone. I felt my body heat up under his stare, my blood singing in anticipation at the offer his eyes were making. A smile began to stretch across his face, as if he could read the eager acceptance in mine.
I looked away quickly. Research, Ally! I reminded myself. Not banging hot guys. Research is why you’re here tonight.
I hurried away to the other side of the bar before I could give into temptation.
The bartender—a wizened old guy with kind brown eyes and a face that looked like it had been there to meet Mark Twain—didn’t bat an eye when I told him what I was after, and after a brief chat with the waitress he got me a corner booth, tucked away behind a stuffed cougar that looked like it had time-traveled directly from the print ads for a 1950s Boy’s Adventure magazine.
Camouflage was definitely necessary; I’d overheard the Douchebros—and I promise I’ll go into more later as to why I even have a group of people in my life worthy of that title—bragging about how tanked they were going to get, and my plans for the night did not include fending off drunken advances, trying to tune out comments about the size of my ass respective to my brain, and counting how many times they could fit the word ‘bro’ into a single sentence.
(So far, the record was seven.)
My plans for the night, however, did include the next thing the waitress brought me: six different shots of bourbon, and a glass of water.
And no, I’m not an alcoholic. This was research.
Fun, delicious research, but research.
Maybe I should back up a little bit. My name? It’s Ally. Allison Bartlett. I’m five foot four, have grey eyes, tolerate the straight brown hair that slides out of every ponytail I put it into, and frequently wear an anxious smile that I’m working hard to make not broadcast my ambition, desperation, and general worrywart nature. It’s an uphill battle.
Anyway, I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been working at Geisel & Son Advertising in Washington, D.C. for two years now. I was an intern my senior year, and I lucked into an entry-level position opening up a month after I graduated. It’s full-time, benefits, the whole package. So I should be thanking my lucky stars, right?
I sure would, if anyone at Geisel & Son ever managed to remember that I wasn’t the intern anymore.
Time and again over the last two years, I’d heard my ideas shot down, only to turn around and see them accepted as brilliant when suggested by whichever man did the least possible amount of rephrasing. I’d been talked over in meetings, told to fetch coffee, and confused with the receptionist. And I think I might have been able to handle all that, if it had been coming solely from the old guard within the establishment. But no, more than half of it was coming from people barely older than me, who seemed to have watched too many episodes of Mad Men and taken all the worst bits to heart.
So this was it. My possibly last big job, where I was going to try my hardest, stand up for myself and fight for my ideas, and give this advertising job one last chance before it ground me down into dust and I packed my bags and waved the sad white flag of surrender on my career dreams.
In case you’re wondering how all of this has anything to do with my solo bourbon sampler party, our latest client was Knox bourbon.
I decided to start and end with said bourbon, in order to better compare it to the others. I leaned over the first glass, parting my lips as I inhaled, both smelling and tasting the aroma of burnt caramel, old wood, and cinnamon. A promising start…I took a sip of the amber liquid, letting it roll slowly across my tongue as I memorized and savored the taste. It had a bold, spicy flavor thanks to the high rye content, with a hint of charred oak and honey, and a strong bite.
I breathed out through my nose and mouth at the same time, and the flavor intensified until I swallowed. I smacked my lips in satisfaction as I set the glass back down. I generally drank a wheated bourbon rather than a rye, and I did miss that slight hint of sweet vanilla, but this wasn’t bad at all.
Glass number two was a rye after my own heart, vanilla like the first lick of ice cream on a hot summer day, cool and refreshing, with a bit of biting heat like a miniature sun right after it washed down my throat. I took another sip of that one, in the interest of more fully appreciating that fine flavor. Maybe I was playing favorites a little, but who was going to tell?
And here came number three. That distinctive flavor that said Kentucky, Bourbon County, that long tradition of Scots-Irish immigration. All the old ways carefully preserved and kept going: a hint of cedar, a touch of honey. A little rough around the edges, but in a way that soothed with its familiarity. I sighed, letting my eyes fall shut, the taste of the bourbon becoming my entire universe.
“Ah, a lady who knows how to savor the good things in life.”
I started, blushing, my eyes popping open and my hand nearly dropping the glass in dismay. Dammit, I’d wanted to be discreet! I hadn’t wanted anyone seeing me geek out like this, and now—
I looked up, and my annoyance at being interrupted died on my lips as I let my bourbon take a rest, and drank in the sight of the interloper instead. It was the same man who’d caught my eye just minutes earlier. Of course. And here I was sighing and drooling shamelessly over an entire smorgasbord of booze. Damn but he was even tastier up close.
Had he said something about the good things in life? Well, he would know, since he was definitely one of them. Golden-brown eyes like the sun shining through a tumbler of bourbon, freckles sun-kissing the bridge of his nose, and a chiseled jaw you could cut diamonds on. His auburn-gold hair was swept back from his forehead and his navy polo shirt clung to all the right places of his shoulders and chest. I bit my lip and resisted asking him to do a spin so I could check and see if those khaki pants clung in all the right places, too.
Barely resisted.
And that accent he spoke in, oh, it made me regret all the work I’d done to lose my own. A warm honey-slow drawl that drew attention to his lips and the way they quirked up at the corner.
“I didn’t think it was good enough to stun you into silence,” he teased.
I blushed and shot back, “I’m just trying to figure out what criteria led you to hone in on the girl with the highest alcohol content in the room. Your self-esteem that low?”
I regretted the sarcastic remark the second it left my mouth. In high-stress situations, I tended to blurt out exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time; it was an adrenaline-fueled, involuntary, and very unfortunate defense mechanism of mine. One that got me into trouble more often than not.
He only grinned, and sauntered closer. “As a matter of fact, I have extremely robust…self-esteem. Show you mine if you’ll show me yours?”
“The hell kind of pick-up line is that?” I said, flummoxed by both his nonchalant demeanor and the sweet scent of masculinity radiating off his delicious body. Stop it Ally, I mentally scolded myself. You’re indignant. Be indignant!
“I’ve got all kinds,” he promised. “Want something more traditional? I’ll give it a go: let me buy you a drink?”
I gestured at the drinks already in front of me.
“I think I’m covered,” I said wryly.
“Then do you mind if I buy myself one and drink it here with you?” he asked.
I considered. I was doing research here. Important research. Research that could change the very trajectory of my career and make all those dreams come true. I didn’t need any distractions.
On the other hand, those shoulders. And those lips, mm-hmm. And truth be told, for all my defensive posturing, there wasn’t a damn thing about him that didn’t scream ‘charming’ and ‘good company’ and, most importantly, ‘eye candy.’
My old science teacher did always say that it was important to have a research partner.
“Well, it certainly would improve the view,” I said, relieved to have finally given myself permission to cozy up to this intriguing stranger.
He grinned wider then, sliding into the booth opposite me, our legs bumping together slightly. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Damn, what was this, sixty seconds and I already had it this bad? Guys this hot should come with a warning label. Not that I’d stop to read it.
Hottie McHotterson—also, damn, how had I not asked his name yet, was I really that far gone into the Lust Canyon?—flagged down the waitress, and ordered a Knox whiskey.
I made a face.
“Not a fan?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Of the whiskey? Sure,” I said. “It tastes great and gets the job done.”
“What is it, then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and that made me open up. “What’s missing?”
“Well, it’s just—” I gestured at the label. “Look at this packaging. Just the name stamped on there in an old-timey font, and the same barrel logo they’ve been using since B.F. Skinner first strolled up to an ad agency with some rats in a box and a lot of fancy promises. It does nothing to catch the eye.”
“The label?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“That’s hardly it!” I shot back. “Their whole branding approach is the same, stuck in the past! Print ads whose copy never changes, radio jingles with slang from the second World War, TV spots with the same Bob Hope lookalike every year—it doesn’t matter how good it tastes, it looks old-fashioned. Like something my grandpa would drink.”
My mysterious visitor’s drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of excellent taste.”
I snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started, looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep, golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching his fingers.
I wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.
Focus, Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing away your entire career for a roll in the hay.
Maybe the whiskey was just getting to me.
I pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing copy I’d call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’ Since I wasn’t, though, I didn’t pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his friends aren’t the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”
“Tell me more about what you think,” he said intently.
Which would have been catnip for me even if I hadn’t been storing up a host of criticisms that went unheard at work, and even if he hadn’t been so damned hot. I didn’t need telling twice.
“This is your typical Knox buyer.” I launched into an imitation of my grandfather. “‘I jus’ don’ know how much longer they can be ‘spectin’ this centralized government t’ last. Times wuz much simpler when a man jus’ brewed his own whiskey and shot at the revenooers.’”
The man laughed, and waved a hand in acknowledgment of my point before raising a challenging eyebrow. “So what would you do if you had control of the rebrand? Throw in some hashtags and make a Facebook page? Get a celebrity endorsement?”
“As if,” I snorted. “Millennials might be self-absorbed, but we can still see through pandering just fine, thanks.”
“Oh?” His thumb brushing over my knuckles was an invitation, and a challenge, and both made my breath catch in my throat. “A pink label, then?”
I watched his eyes dip to the side and a lazy grin spread across his face, and I knew that he had spotted the pink strap of my bra peeking out from the side of my short-sleeved button-up shirt.
“Strange as it might seem, the color pink doesn’t brainwash women into buying things,” I replied, trying not to let on how breathless he had made me. Trying not to imagine his hands instead of his eyes on that pink bra strap, easing it slowly from my shoulder as he kissed my neck.
I raised the stakes, slipping my foot out of my shoe to stroke his ankle, and then moved it slightly higher. This was really out of character for me, but something about our conversation, the flush of whiskey in my cheeks, the way he was looking at me…I felt emboldened in a way I never did at work or even when I was out with my friends.
I was rewarded with a flush of heat in his gaze, his pupils dilating as his grip tightened slightly on mine. He leaned forward, close enough that I could have kissed him without rising from the seat. His lips were so full, they looked so soft—
He was so close I could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured his next words: “So, tell me, what would you do?” He picked up his glass and drank, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed it down. I didn’t look away. It was safe to assume my panties were on fire, and there was only one way to put that fire out.
And you know what? I decided I’d been overthinking things at work. Either I had confidence in myself or I didn’t, and doing some last-minute drinking wasn’t going to change a damn thing about my presentation tomorrow.
But some really good sex just might give me an edge.
I lifted my own glass and downed the remaining Knox. My decision was made.
It was go time.
I leaned towards him until our lips were barely a millimeter apart. “Do you really want to know what I’d do with this brand?” I whispered. Before he could answer, I brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. He tasted like smoke and cinnamon and danger, and I liked it. “Or would you rather know what I’d do with you?”
His eyes gleamed, and I knew his answer even before he spoke.
***
What happens next? Ally and Hunter’s story continues in BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST – Available now!
