Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Kisses"
Автор книги: Stella London
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 8 страниц)
CHAPTER 3
When we arrive at the gala, I can’t believe the scene: it’s being hosted in the lobby of the new modern wing at the hospital, with a real-life red carpet and photographers lined up outside to snap the society arrivals. Camera lights flash and reporters toss out questions to the guests and I feel like a celebrity, walking up on St. Clair’s arm.
“Mr. St. Clair, over here!”
“Charles, a word!”
“St. Clair!”
He guides me smoothly past, pausing to talk about the great work the fundraisers did, and how many people the new wing will help.
“You’re so natural out there in front of all the press,” I say once we’re past the paparazzi.
His smile slips. “It’s part of the job,” he shrugs. “But to tell you the truth, it’s not my favorite. All the attention comes with the territory, but it’s a performance too.”
I’m taken aback, but he seems genuine. “So who is the real you?” I tease.
“Just me,” St. Clair gives me a quiet smile and takes my hand. “The guy who cooked you dinner in Napa, who just spent a lovely evening with your family.”
I smile. “That guy’s great,” I say, but I wonder why this sudden burst of authenticity.
He smiles back. “Don’t forget that,” he says.
Inside, the grand lobby has been turned into a reception area, with a bar at one end of the marble floor and the donated art pieces hung throughout the room. St. Clair is surrounded immediately. He introduces me to all kinds of amazing people, saying, “This is my art consultant, Grace Bennett,” and I feel like Cinderella at the ball. It’s magical.
Finally, St. Clair says, “Let’s take a tour, go say goodbye to my donations.”
I laugh, then realize he’s serious. “But they were just sitting in your vault.”
St. Clair grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and hands me one. “Which is why I’m giving them away to live a better life. But I still want a last look.”
We make it around the room to where St. Clair’s donation is displayed. A small crowd has gathered in front of the three pieces I agonized over but finally chose: a wild and crazy splattering of a Pollock, an abstract Picasso, and an up-and-coming artist named O’Brien who uses neon colors and big sweeping shapes.
People are whispering and there’s an energy surrounding the art that makes me nervous. The paintings I picked don’t fit in with the rest of the art here. All the other pieces are tame and traditional: watercolors, landscapes, lots of florals and delicate brushwork. The typical thing you find in doctors’ waiting rooms – and exactly why I went in a different direction. Now, I’m having second thoughts. If these pieces aren’t appropriate, then it makes St. Clair look bad.
“Do you think there’s a problem?” I ask nervously, my body tensing as we get closer. Before St. Clair can answer, someone sees him and starts clapping. More of the crowd joins in until dozens of people are applauding and clearing a path for us.
“Guess not,” he whispers to me.
A reporter from the Chronicle stands ready with a dictaphone. “Everyone is very impressed by your donations, Mr. St. Clair.”
Agreements and things like, “Wonderful choices, St. Clair!” and “So lively!” float from the several dozen people standing around gazing at the artwork I selected. I love the paintings, so it shouldn’t be surprising that others love them, too. And yet, I’m relieved and grateful.
“Speech!” someone shouts and the crowd quiets down.
“Yes, please,” says the man from the Chronicle. “Can you tell us a little about your donation? It’s by far the most impressive collection to hang in a public building like this. Aren’t you worried about security?”
St. Clair clears his throat and addresses the room. “Actually, my art consultant, Grace Bennett, was the brilliant mind who selected the art here tonight. Please, Grace.” He gestures for me to speak.
What? My mind goes blank. I look at the sea of expectant faces and don’t know what to say. “Um,” I say, beginning to sweat. St. Clair gives me a little nod of encouragement. “Well, my mom was sick a few years ago,” I start slowly, speaking from the heart. “So I spent a lot of time in hospitals—waiting rooms and hallway seats, patient rooms—and the art was always so lifeless. It was supposed to be soothing, I know, but instead, it felt like defeat. I always thought there should be more vibrant colors, more movement in the art to lift people’s spirits,” I go on, and suddenly I can’t stop the words flowing out of me. “To remind them about the beauty in the world when they’re facing their most difficult challenges. I know I would have liked pieces like this hanging on the hospital walls I had to be in. I hope others feel the same.”
There’s applause, a few nods of understanding, and St. Clair rests a hand on my shoulder. “Great job,” he murmurs. And I can tell from the look in his eye that he means it. “This is why I hired you, you know,” he says as the crowd disperses. “You see art as something that can enrich the everyday, not just something to stay on the wall and be admired from a distance. I’m proud of you.”
His words spark a warm glow. If my feet didn’t hurt so much in these heels I would feel like I’m floating on air. I didn’t let him down at my first task – and I might make a difference to the people who will be using this hospital wing. It feels great, and I know my mom would be proud of me, too.
“Grace!”
I freeze, recognizing that voice. In an instant, my warm glow fades. Lydia Forbes, my former boss from hell, strides up, tailed by the snooty intern at Carringer’s, Chelsea.
“Hello, Lydia,” I say politely. “How are you?”
Lydia gushes. “I’m good, but you two look amazing! I just love the pieces you chose, Grace.”
What?
I’m too stunned to speak. St. Clair says, “Yes, she has quite the eye. I’m thrilled she agreed to work for me.”
“Congratulations,” Lydia says to me. Then to St. Clair, “You know, with all the hullabaloo at Carringer’s, I may be in the market for other opportunities myself. If you know of any openings…”
I forcibly clench my jaw to keep it from dropping to the floor. St. Clair’s multi-million dollar painting gets stolen from Carringer’s on Lydia’s watch, and now she’s turning around and asking him for a job? But St. Clair is smooth, as usual. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, moving out of her reach. “But I believe Grace has filled the last spot on my team of experts.”
Chelsea starts to roll her eyes but stops herself when she sees me looking. “I’m so happy for you!” she says instead, clearly lying out of her ass. “It’s just so hard to believe how far you’ve come so fast! It seems like only yesterday you were scrubbing floors.”
I gulp the last of my champagne. “That’s because you’ve never seen what hard work will get you.”
St. Clair stifles a laugh. “Shall we take a look at the other donations?” he says to me, holding out his arm. I take it.
“Let’s.”
“It was nice to see you, ladies,” he tosses back over his shoulder as we go.
We move off. A waiter passes with a tray of canapes and I remember that the last time I was at an event like this, it was me carrying the tray of appetizers, sweating over orders handed down to me by Lydia. Chelsea’s right, I’ve come a long way. I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“What’s so funny?” a male voice asks out of nowhere. We turn.
It’s Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who was investigating the Carringer’s theft.
St .Clair extends a hand politely. “Lennox. I wouldn’t have expected to see you here. Nobody making off with any paintings, I hope.”
“Not yet, at least. But I’m keeping my eyes open.” Nick shakes his hand. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and looks like he’d rather be in jeans than a tux. “Miss Bennett,” he nods to me. “I heard about your change in employment.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though I’m not sure it’s a compliment.
St. Clair nabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hands it to Lennox. “Any leads in the search for my painting?” he asks. The thief made off with a priceless piece that St. Clair had just purchased at auction, but there hasn’t been any word yet about catching the thief.
“No leads just yet. Whoever he is, our man is thorough.” Lennox gives St. Clair a measured look. He’s probably hoping St. Clair won’t be angry or impatient they haven’t caught the perpetrator yet.
“Or woman,” I pipe up. They both turn, surprised. “We don’t know that it’s a man,” I shrug. “You said so yourself, there aren’t any leads.”
St. Clair chuckles. “She’s got you there.”
Lennox pauses. “No, this is a man. Someone with too much time on their hands, with an incredible ego, who’s used to getting his own way.”
“So he’s a pro,” St. Clair says. “That doesn’t bode well for me or my painting.”
“No,” Lennox says slowly. “It doesn’t bode well for you at all.”
There’s a weird tension in the air, and I wonder if the two of them have any history. Maybe Lennox isn’t too pleased about chasing down all these works of art for their rich owners. Either way, I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of something.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I’m going to head to the ladies’ room.”
I slip through the crowd and find the bathrooms. Of course, they’re brand new and full of polished marble. I’ve just entered a stall when a group of girls comes into the room, laughing and chattering away. A voice I recognize distinguishes itself. Chelsea. “She only got the job because she’s fucking St. Clair. Duh,” she says. I freeze in my stall, my blood gone cold. “I mean, it’s hard to blame her. That guy is yum!”
My stomach clenches. They’re talking about me.
“How do you know?” another girl asks.
“Have you seen her resume? Please,” Chelsea sneers. “No one is going to take that girl seriously no matter how much she dresses herself up. Besides, St. Clair’s such a playboy. In a week, he’ll have some new hotter girl on his arm and Cinderella will be back scrubbing floors where she belongs.”
My face gets hot, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, but I don’t move.
“She seemed nice when she talked about visiting hospitals because of her mom,” the other girl says.
“Whatever, sob story, ugh. She doesn’t belong in this world, and she’ll be forced to see it soon enough. Anyway, did you see what Fifi was wearing? O.M.G, can you say desperate?”
Their conversation moves on, but I’m forced to wait, silent in the stall until the door closes shut behind them.
I feel sick. Sure, Chelsea is being a jealous bitch, but her words bring up the same fears I’ve been trying to ignore this whole time.
Maybe I don’t belong. Maybe I never will.
And the things she said about St. Clair… I’m not naïve, a man like that must have women throwing themselves at him 24/7, but I’ve been too swept up in the romance of it all to think about that. But if he is a playboy – if he does date a new woman every week – what does that mean for us? Or worse, what if there is no ‘us’?
I head back out to the party, trying to ignore my doubts. Then I see St. Clair across the room, standing very close to a woman I don’t recognize. She’s beautiful and sophisticated, with long blonde hair and a stunning black gown. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s clear she’s flirting with Charles, placing her hand on his chest and leaning in too close to laugh with him.
I feel jealousy rising in my chest, but I try to push it away. We spent one night together. We haven’t event talked about what it meant, if anything, and it’s not like he’s my boyfriend. I have no real claim on his attention, but still, seeing them together slices right through me.
I try to get my feeling under control. I can’t get too emotional—he’s my boss. And he’s gorgeous. There are always going to be women hitting on him. This is something I need to get used to. He’s not mine.
As I watch them, St. Clair laughs again. The woman hugs him and my control is a distant memory. Is Nona right, what she said about letting my heart get swept up? I have worked so hard to find a place for myself in the art world, and no matter what Chelsea said, I’m just starting to prove myself. I can’t let my feelings ruin this opportunity to launch my career – however much I want St. Clair.
Priorities, Grace.
Instead of going right back to him, I do my best to network for the rest of the evening: chatting to the hospital board, collectors and the rest of the rarefied guests. St. Clair finds me just as people are starting to leave.
His eyes are a painter’s dream, and my resolution to stay focused on the business side of our relationship starts to evaporate as he walks me out of the lobby into the cool night air. “I’m happy to have Arturo take you home,” he says. “Or we could go to my place for a nightcap.”
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. Those eyes are on mine, sparkling with heat and suggestion.
“Um, well…” I can’t help it. Just like that, my desire to go back to his house is nearly overwhelming. I want to grab him and pull him close, run my hands through his hair. Discover his body all over again.
But I remember what Chelsea said – and how it felt, watching him flirt with that woman. I swallow thickly. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I think it might be better if we, uh, hit pause on our romance for now. Or whatever it might be.” I look away, feeling my cheeks flush.
He sounds disappointed. “Oh.” He drops his arm but doesn’t let go of my hand and the heat of his skin against mine almost burns through my willpower. “Right.”
“For now,” I say, awkwardly. “You know, being colleagues, professional is probably the way to go here, right?”
He lets go. “Yes, of course. I totally understand.”
“You do?” I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed.
“You’re smart to separate business from pleasure. I guess I’m not so good at drawing the line.” He clears his throat. “But if you ever decide you would like to mix them up again…”
I playfully swat at his bicep, relief washing through me. “So we’re okay?”
“Better than okay,” he reassures me. “I think we’re going to make a great team. Professionally speaking, of course.”
We reach his car. “Take the driver. I’ll grab a taxi.” He winks at me as he backs away and I think Dear god, Grace, are you really letting that fine ass walk away? He looks so good, framed in the streetlight, it makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing turning him down. “See you Monday, super star,” he says and disappears into the night before I can change my mind.
Sometimes being responsible is such a buzz-kill.
CHAPTER 4
If I was concerned about things being awkward between us now, I shouldn’t have worried. St. Clair is so busy with meetings all week that except for a quick nod and smile in the hallway, our paths barely cross. Luckily I’m so inundated with work I don’t have time to dwell on our awkward goodbye in the street after the hospital gala, or my decision to hit pause on those perfect lips coming in for a kiss, that carved body pressed against mine…wait, why did I do that again? Work, Grace, remember? That career you’ve been seeking for your entire adult life? Oh yeah, that.
Besides, I have so much to keep me busy, I barely have time to think. My work is incredible—even better than I dreamed. I keep track of international art sales and dealer buzz, research potential clients, investors, and artists. I visit gallery and garage openings like I did with my mom, and stay up late reading industry tipster sites to stay on top of the latest news. I feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of the pool to sink or swim, but I love that St. Clair trusts that I’ll make it to the other side. It’s been so long since I cared enough to try this hard at anything, and I have to admit, I’m enjoying it. Even the di Fiores have been supportive of my new work schedule, leaving warm plates of food at my door in the evenings and waving me off every morning as I head out to the office. If they’re missing my waitressing, I haven’t heard about it, and I hope I don’t let anybody down by allowing this job to eat my life right now.
My new assistant, Maisie, is godsend, helping with anything I need, just like she promised. I stop by her office, which is really the large luxurious area outside St. Clair’s corner suite. “Hi Grace,” she says. “Did you ever find that email from Porter?”
“Yes, actually I wanted to ask you about that. Porter says there’s a great new artist having a show, and I think St. Clair should invest in this guy, which means…” Maisie has started typing again, while still looking at me, showing off her enviable multitasking skills. “Sorry for boring you with details. I just need to talk to him. Is there a time when he’s not busy?”
Maisie makes two clicks on her computer. “There’s nothing on his calendar now. I just got back from lunch, but he should be in there. You can go on in.”
I smooth down my hair and then push open the heavy door of St. Clair’s office. I’m greeted to a view of Charles sitting at his desk—across from the sexy blonde he was chatting up at the gala. She’s leaning over in her chair to give him a view of her cleavage that I can’t help but get an eyeful of myself. They’re both laughing and don’t notice me.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, shocked, my cheeks reddening. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I start to turn around, keeping my eyes on the plush carpet, and run into a potted palm. Idiot! I try to recover my balance and what’s left of my dignity, but St. Clair’s voice stops me.
“Grace, wait.”
I look up to see St. Clair standing, beckoning me closer. “I’d like you to meet Amanda Leighton.” The woman nods at me. “She’s a journalist who is…”
He pauses and my mind fills in the blank with a million gut-wrenching options as I stand there with a smile plastered on my face. …going to be my wife …fucking my brains out later this evening since you said no …your replacement in every way.
Amanda finishes for him. “Stealing all his time, I’m afraid. I’m writing a feature profile for Forbes, about your boss.”
“I tried to get out of it, but she’s very persuasive,” St. Clair grins.
I bet she is.
I still feel awkward, like I interrupted something I shouldn’t have. “I’ll let you get back to your interview, then.”
“No, it’s fine. We were just wrapping up,” he says as Amanda picks up her purse.
“Nice to meet you,” she says to me, with a surprisingly genuine smile. “I was meaning to tell you, I just loved your choices for the hospital wing. So bold.”
“Um, thanks.”
To St. Clair she says, “Pick up your phone if I call for follow up questions, okay? No more phone tag.”
“Done,” he says. She kisses his cheek and then she’s out the door, her perfectly perky ass bouncing as she exits. St. Clair looks at me and smiles his quiet smile, the one the cameras and reporters don’t get to see. “So what can I do for you?”
My stomach flip flops, but I remind myself to be strong, to resist his many, many charms. “This won’t take long, I wanted to talk to you about a—”
“Have you eaten lunch?” he interrupts.
“Not yet, but—”
“I’ve barely seen you since the gala,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “Let’s catch up over sandwiches. It’s lunch hour anyway and I want to hear all about what you’re working on now.”
My heart sinks. So much for keeping things in the office. How can I say no?
St. Clair picks up some food from a deli and then takes me to a small museum nearby that I’ve never seen before: hidden in a townhouse on a side street away from the rest of the office buildings.
“I don’t think we’re allowed—” I start, glancing at the big signs warning us not to bring in food or drink.
“Don't worry about it. There’s no one else here.” St. Clair leads me to a bench in one of the gallery rooms.
“What about the guards?”
“Who, Kevin?” St. Clair winks at the uniformed guard standing silently in the corner. “I do this all the time. It’s one of my favorite lunch spots. Peaceful.”
I study him. “You’re not much for following rules, are you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He grins.
“What about the consequences?” I ask, thinking of all the times I tried to misbehave, and only got into trouble.
“If you lived your life thinking about the worst that might happen, you’d never leave the house. Sure, I might like to test the limits sometimes, but I’m always smart. Careful.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.” I glance at the guard as St. Clair begins to unwrap his sandwich. Kevin barely glances over at us, so I follow St. Clair’s lead, the paper making a crackling noise that echoes off the walls. I feel a little excitement at doing something against the rules and can’t help a little smile. “You’re a bad influence,” I tease.
St Clair laughs. “We’ll make a risk-taker of you yet.”
“Is that how you’ve become so successful?” I ask, curious. “Breaking the rules?”
“Maybe. I just grew up with so many rules and limitations. Everyone at school and in my family wanted people to fit into nice little boxes with easy labels. No one was allowed to be themselves, or stray from the lines.”
I take a bite of my turkey and avocado and wait to see if he’ll say more, but St. Clair seems to be staring off into someplace in his memory. His life is so far removed from mine, it’s fascinating. I may not have had as much time with my mom as I wanted, but she always encouraged me to be myself. “That must have been hard.”
He pauses, and when he answers, his voice is quieter. “It was. Growing up, I knew I was a disappointment to the family. I couldn’t understand why I was just supposed to do what they expected of me. There was so much more in the world I wanted to see, to discover. It was like being given a canvas and a set of oil paints, then being told I could only paint in black and white,” he adds with a rueful smile. “I didn’t last long. As soon as I was old enough, I left to make it on my own.”
I smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “And how’s that working out for you?”
He smiles, too. “Not too bad right now.”
We eat in silence for a few moments, munching on chips and enjoying the light tinkling of the fountain in the courtyard right outside, the cool sea air on our skin. St. Clair has a lock of hair sticking out over his eyes and I want so badly to reach out and touch it, brush my finger down those sculpted cheeks and bring his lips to mine…
Keep it professional, remember? I turn away to look around at the art, an eclectic mix. St. Clair sat us in front of a Durer piece, a detailed depiction of a rabbit. It sounds simple, like child’s play, but it’s actually so dense it’s like looking under a microscope, every detail perfect.
St. Clair sees me staring. “You like what you see?”
“I love Durer’s work, especially these quieter, less famous pieces,” I say. “The fur actually looks like real fur.” I’m in awe.
“Do you know the provenance of this piece?”
“Will you fire me if I admit I don’t?”
He laughs. “It’s disputed, actually. This piece is rumored to have been looted by the Nazis, taken from a Jewish family in Paris.”
“How did it end up here?”
“Years of changing hands and finally a wealthy Russian family decided to donate it.”
My brow creases. “Why not give it back to the original owners, then?”
He leans back and rubs his chin. “That’s the horrible part. During the war, title deeds were often lost, or destroyed, and billions of dollars’ worth of priceless art was stolen from their rightful owners. Some of the surviving families have tried to get their property back, but without the deeds, there’s no way to prove it.”
“That’s so sad,” I say, feeling a pang. “Those families lost so much. The least they can do is have their art returned.”
“I absolutely agree.” St. Clair nods. “How about you, Grace? How is your art coming along?”
I start a little, and he looks confused. “You did study to be a painter, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I was never good enough to really go anywhere with it.” I wave my hands in dismissal. “And I haven’t painted in forever.”
“Why not?”
I wince, thinking of the ache that builds in my heart every time I pick up a brush. “Since my mom died, I just haven’t felt that spark. It’s too hard.”
“Have you tried?” he pushes lightly.
I shrug. “I still sketch, but every time I’m faced with a blank canvas, the brushes that belonged to my mom…I just freeze.” I busy my hands with clearing up the remnants of my sandwich, self-conscious about admitting something so personal.
He reaches out and takes my hands. “You’ll paint again, Grace. True passion like your mother’s, like yours, never disappears completely.”
I look at him. “Are you sure?” I whisper, desperate for his words to be true.
He rubs his thumb across my palm. “Give it time. When you’re ready, the muse will return. Trust me.”
I swallow back the tears of emotion suddenly welling in my throat. “Thanks.”
His phone buzzes, ruining the moment. He checks the screen. “I’ll be right back,” he says, stepping out into the hallway.
I clean up our lunch scraps and put them in the trash near the guard, who barely looks at me. I guess St. Clair really does do this all the time. I wander the hall studying the art, the color and shadow. I study the rabbit’s nose up close—it really is incredible—and realize how much I want to get back into my own art. I’ve missed it. I need it, I think.
Artistic expression is a part of who I am, and I’m glad St. Clair is reminding me of that.
The next morning I’m on the phone waiting to speak to the manager of a reclusive artist for an appointment that I’ve been trying to get for days and Maisie is chattering nonstop about some robbery.
“They don’t know who did it, or how. It’s all very mysterious,” Maisie says, dropping a pile of papers on my desk. I nod absently, thinking about how much I want an exclusive deal with this artist. “It’s all over the papers, especially after the Carringer’s fiasco.”
“There does seem to be a spree, doesn’t there?” I say, wondering why there’s this sudden interest in art from the criminal community.
“It’s like Ocean’s Eleven!” Maisie giggles just as the manager comes back on the line. “Miss Bennett?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I say. Maisie gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.
A few minutes later I’m knocking on St. Clair’s office door, excited to tell him about the appointment I just made with the reclusive artist that is going to knock his socks off. “We’ll get to visit his studio next week,” I tell him happily. “He hardly ever allows collectors to see his work in progress, I think this could be a great relationship for you.”
St. Clair seems distracted, putting papers into his briefcase. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. I’m leaving for London tomorrow and I’ll be gone for a month.”
A month?
“Oh.” I can’t imagine a month without seeing him, but I try to act like it’s no big deal. “Okay, well, can I get you to sign those release forms for the new purchase and approve the—”
“I don’t know if that will work either.” There’s a strange smile playing on his lips.
“Okay...” Confusion freezes me where I stand. What’s going on? “Why not?”
For a terrible moment, I wonder if he’s decided to fire me, after all. Then St. Clair’s grin widens. “Because you’ll be coming with me.”
