Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Kisses"

Автор книги: Stella London

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CHAPTER 5

After a whirlwind week packing and making arrangements, I still can’t believe it when we touchdown and I step off the plane in London. I’m in Europe!

I’m so excited I’m almost bouncing on my toes as we maneuver through the crowds at Heathrow and get swooped up by St. Clair’s car and driver. Charles sits calmly in the seat next to me, checking his phone as I rubberneck at all the tourist attractions I’ve only read about.

“Look, there’s Big Ben!” I say as we drive by the famous tower. “And Westminster Abbey!”

St. Clair smiles, amused. “Be glad Londoners can’t see or hear you right now. You’d be ribbed mercilessly for being so American.”

I laugh. “Sorry. I tried to play it cool all the way here, couldn’t you tell? It’s not every day I fly first class.”

Try, never.

“Real cool,” he grins, teasing. “The whole plane heard you squeal when they brought out afternoon tea.”

“But it was scones and clotted cream, on real china!” I protest. “I know, I’m not sophisticated, I’ve just never traveled abroad before. I’ve wanted to for so long.” I gaze out the windows at all the old brick, the stone fountains full of sculptures, the actual cobblestone roads, the river Thames and its ancient waters. “There’s so much history here.”

“It’s a great city,” he agrees. “And you’ll have plenty of time to explore it.”

“I don’t know. My boss is pretty strict.”

“Don’t worry.” He grins. “I’ll make sure that jerk doesn’t work you too hard.”

We stop at a signal in front of Buckingham Palace, its grand façade stretching for blocks. “Wow, the palace guards really do stand still as statues. Is it true that if you go bother them, they still can’t move or talk?”

St. Clair laughs.

“What?” I say, stiffening.

He says, “It’s been so long since I came here with a fresh pair of eyes like yours.”

We enter Notting Hill—which I recognize from the Julia Roberts movie—and I’m oohing and ahhing over the cute colorful buildings when we stop in front of one. I can’t wipe the huge smile off my face, but I try not to be presumptuous. “Do we have business here, Mr. St. Clair?”

He gets out of the car and I do the same, stepping out into the street. There’s a cute café with outdoor tables, artists riding by on bicycles, little boutiques, and a great buzz, just like in the movie.

“This is your home away from home.” He gestures to the bright blue stucco buildings in front of us, with flower boxes in the windows, and a cat peering at us from the front steps.

I gasp. “Really?”

St. Clair grins, his dimples throwing me off balance. God, he is gorgeous. “Number 3 on the left.” He hands me a brass key. “It’s a friend of a friend’s who’s out of town. I thought the apartment and the neighborhood would suit you. This way, you have your own space, to really get to know the city.”

“Thank you,” I gush. I hug him, I can’t help it, and he hesitates and then embraces me fully, our bodies pressing together. I inhale his aftershave, slide my hands along his muscular shoulders, feel the heat rise in my chest and begin to sink lower, so I let him go.

“How are you holding up?” he asks. “You should take it easy for a while, get some rest before the jet-lag hits you.”

“I’m fine.” I look at the cute front stoops, the cherry trees, and the colorful café awnings. “I’m more than fine. I’m in London!” I spread my arms wide. “Let’s get started.”

“Okay, okay, Energizer Bunny.” St. Clair laughs. “I’m texting you an address where you can meet me in a few hours.” He gestures to the driver, who lifts my suitcase from the trunk and carries it up the stairs to the front door. “Go inside and get settled, and I’ll see you later.”

He turns to get back in the car. “Charles?” I say, my voice stopping him. “Really, thank you,” I tell him again. “This is incredible.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, getting into the back seat. “We are still here for business.” He winks and shuts the door.

Inside, the apartment is an artist’s dream. It’s light and airy, open and full of homey touches like soft blankets on the comfy couch, a tea selection fanned out on a pretty plate, and a wall lined with lighted cabinets housing little statues and decorative vases.

The bedroom has a queen bed with a fluffy comforter, and a small desk in the corner with an ink jar and quill pen. I quickly unpack my things in the small closet and go through to the bathroom. There’s an actual claw-foot white porcelain tub and a jar of lavender bath salts, and I can’t wait to draw a bath and have long relaxing soak.

Even though St. Clair warned me about jet-lag, I don’t want to waste another moment indoors. I decide to go out and experience the culture. I stroll down the tree-lined streets, past vintage clothing stores with beautiful displays of dresses and shoes, and quaint cafes with metal folding chairs out front. It feels like a fairy tale. I actually live here! Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a dream I never imagined coming true. Mom, I hope you can see this.

A few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette and an apple in my stomach, I’m standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you land is where you’re supposed to be.

“Grace?” St. Clair is at my elbow. “Sorry that took so long. We’re finalizing the details of the show and as you know, artists can be…particular.”

I laugh. “That’s very diplomatic of you. Now, what show would that be?” I pull out my notebook and pen like a reporter, a trick I learned from Paige, who is always saying her notes are her lifesavers.

“Right,” St. Clair says, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself. “Sorry again. I haven’t even told you what you’ll be doing here, have I?”

“Not in so many words,” I admit.

“My company is sponsoring a graduation show for the college. It’s a whole event, with a huge opening the press will attend and all the big names in the industry. It’s a big honor for the students who are chosen to exhibit their final pieces.”

I nod. “I’m sure it can jumpstart careers. Change lives.”

He agrees, “It does, which is why the professors always bring in an impartial outside judge.”

“That’s a big task,” I say, figuring he must have to look at hundreds of portfolios. “Do you want me to vet the first round?”

He grins. “I want you to select the honorees.”

I catch my tongue before blurting out Me? like a moron. “Are you sure? It wasn’t so long ago I was a student myself.”

He leads me down a hallway. “I want to show you something.” We stop in front of a studio space, and I peer through the big glass window at five easels set up, with painters focused and working behind each. A professor wanders the room, critiquing, wiggling her fingers at some folks and gesturing wildly in sweeping motion with her arms at others.

The smell of paint and just-stretched canvas is thick in the air. I take a deep breath, letting memories of classes and afternoons spent with my brush guiding my hand wash over me. “This takes me back.”

“Exactly,” St. Clair says. He points to the students, who don’t pay any attention to us. In the zone. “You know how much this will mean to those students, and you have no ulterior motives or political agenda, so you are the perfect person to choose the winners.”

“But who’s to say what the best really is?” I ask, nervous.

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, you, for one, being my art consultant. That’s part of your job.”

I frown. “You know what I mean, right? Art is so subjective—why should my opinion matter more than someone else’s?”

“Because it does.” St. Clair looks at me. “You have a gift at seeing the deeper emotion of a piece. It’s why I hired you. Your opinion matters more than anyone’s.”

I have to look away.

I watch the students working, their faces concentrated, their brushes dipping and lifting from canvas to palette. I think about what possibilities may have been out there for me if I’d been able to finish my scholarship at the prestigious east coast college where I met Paige. What an award like this would have meant for me.

“Someone’s life is going to change dramatically after this,” I tell him. Not unlike mine did recently. The universe is funny like that, giving us the thing we want only after we’ve given up hope. Maybe because it’s then that we are finally willing to take a risk.

“Just follow your instincts,” he reassures me.

We walk back to the main entrance, but fatigue hits me like a bullet train and I’m suddenly too tired to stand. I wobble a little and St. Clair steadies me. “You okay?”

“I think I may need to lie down.”

He chuckles softly. “I told you, jet-lag is no joke.” He slips an arm around me. “Now, the TSA, that’s a joke.”

“Haha,” I say, but I’m practically letting him carry me as we begin walking back to the front of the building. “Sorry to be such a pain.”

“Not at all,” he says, always a gentleman. “Let’s get you back to the apartment so you can sleep. We have plenty of time for this, so take tomorrow to rest and settle in.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. A whole day to explore! My tired brain is already racing with the possibilities, so I know I’d better take advantage of this opportunity to rest while I can.

CHAPTER 6

I sleep like the dead for fifteen hours straight. St. Clair was right about jet-lag being no joke, but I wake feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and ready to take on the world. How could I not be? I’m in London: international center of art and culture– and sexy accents. Though St. Clair’s is still my favorite.

I text Paige. I’m here, lover! Want to have lunch today?

I make a pot of tea and sip as I watch the light play off the orange and pink houses on this block, the white trim like reflectors in the morning sun. Paige writes back, OMG, yes!! Meet me at the Covent Garden market. 2 hours?

I write, Tips for getting there?

Tube it up! She replies. There’s a Covent Garden stop. Excited to see you!

My chest constricts. It’s been so long. ME TOO.

I shower and slip into a casual dress—London is generally dressier than San Francisco, but it’s still a weekday afternoon—and head out into the street feeling like I always imagined it would feel to live abroad: glamorous, thrilling, a little bit scary. Things are new, but that makes them exciting, and I feel like a whole new version of myself, too.

I head down the steps to the Tube station under the big red and white circle icon, figure out how to buy a subway pass, and step through the turnstile. I take a picture of the Mind the Gap sign, for Fred back home, who wants that painted on his kitchen wall someday. The London Underground train seems much cleaner than BART, and it moves fast, though there’s not much to see since it is, after all, underground.

I exit at Covent Garden and find myself in a narrow maze of old cobbled streets. Here, the stores are crammed in older buildings, and there are a ton of tourists watching street performers by the side of the road. I get my bearings, and head down the hill to where a covered market is filled with food and craft stalls, vendors and shoppers milling about like a school of fish. I see Paige sitting at a café right on the edge of the crowd. I quicken my pace, and she jumps up from the table when she sees me. “Gracie!”

“Paigie!”

We squeal and hug, take a step back to look at each other and then hug again. “It’s been so long,” I say, and I start to tear up, feeling silly.

“I know!” she says. “I missed you too much!”

“Me too.” We hug again, until I glance at the other café patrons and notice a few frowns. “Okay, okay, people are starting to stare,” I say, releasing my grip on my best friend.

“Screw ‘em,” she says, but she sits down without a fight. “The Brits are a little weird about PDA,” she admits.

I sit in the chair opposite her. “You look amazing!”

“It’s the working so much you don’t have time to eat diet,” she jokes. “So do you!”

“Thanks,” I say, relaxing. “Although I’m definitely not on a diet. I’m starving. What shall we get?”

Paige holds up a silver pot. “English breakfast tea? If you’re going to live here, you better tea like a Londoner.”

“Sure.” I’m usually a fan of herbal teas, but when in Rome, or, er, England, right?

“You’ll want to add cream and sugar.” She pours dark brown liquid into our shiny white mugs. “I also ordered you an Eggs Benedict. Still your favorite?”

“You are the best.”

“I know.” Paige grins, her full pouty lips upturning into the gorgeous smile that broke so many boys’ hearts in college. “Unfortunately, even I don’t seem to be able to crack the code of this bastard art thief.”

“Still no leads on the Reubens painting?” I dump a packet of sugar into my cup and a splash of cream. “It’s been almost a month now.”

“That Interpol guy Lennox thinks it’s related to that new museum theft in San Fran, but it feels like a cold trail to me.” She shakes her head.

“Oh, I heard about that.” That was the museum St. Clair took me to for our brown bag picnic. We even walked past the painting that was taken. “I wonder who would want to steal these pieces—what for? There haven’t been any black market sales reported, but there’ve also been no ransom calls or letters, which would make the most sense if the thieves aren’t selling off the paintings…so why would someone be hoarding all this art?”

“We have no idea, and that’s the problem.” Paige sighs. “There’s no pattern to the thefts—no time of day or MO similarities, the paintings themselves are all from different time periods and artists and countries of origin, and he hasn’t left a shred of real evidence. It’s baffling.”

“Like a puzzle.”

“Except this one seems unsolvable, and I am not going to become one of those characters in a TV drama who gives up her life and her sanity—not to mention her figure—to stare at some case she can’t crack.” Paige grins.

“But don’t you like the chase?” I know she does, or she at least loves chasing all the men she sets her eyes on.

“Yeah, I love the chase, but I also love to get the guy, too. Do you know how awesome it is to catch a snooty investor filing a false claim, or bust someone for fraud?” Paige’s eyes light up.

I laugh. “You’re like insurance fraud Dirty Harry.”

“Damn straight!” She grins. “But this thief is just too good, and the cops aren’t good enough. The leads are played out, the trail’s going cold, and I’m getting bored.” She sips her tea. “I wish they would give me something else to work on.”

The waiter brings our food and it smells delicious. I dig in as Paige says, “You know what’s not boring?” I groan. “That’s right—you bumping nasties with the hottie billionaire. Give me the scoop, woman!”

I swallow a mouthful of heavenly hollandaise sauce. “There isn’t a lot to tell, really. I’ve told him I want to keep things professional, and he’s been respecting that.”

“Professional only? Please.” Paige eyes me with skepticism. “You can suddenly be just coworkers? How’s that working out for you?”

“He’s my boss, Paige. I want to earn his respect, not blow this opportunity to advance my career.”

“It’s the blowing that helps you keep the job, girl,” she jokes.

“Haha.” I roll my eyes. “Seriously. This matters to me. I want to do this right.” I feel a little like a stick in the mud, but Paige knows how hard I’ve worked to get here, what hurdles I’ve had to clear for this opportunity.

“I get it, Grace, I do.”

I take another sip of my tea, pleasantly surprised to find that I like it, and have to keep from spitting it out when Paige says, “But dear God, that ass!”

We burst into giggles and it feels like the old days, like we’re sitting in our pajamas eating popcorn and watching Netflix. “It is definitely distracting,” I admit. “I’m trying to do a good job, stay focused on the work…but I’ve never met a man like him before.”

“You mean sexy, rich, and charming as all hell?”

“Exactly!” I think of him encouraging my painting and telling me the passion will come again, him getting me to my apartment when jet-lag knocked me out. “And sweet and kind and generous…”

“Uh, oh,” Paige says, reaching across the table to press the back of her hand against my forehead. “Someone’s got it bad.”

I swat her hand away. “It’s not a fever. It’s an inappropriate crush. Remember that Anthropology TA you dated?”

“Carl.” She makes a grossed out face and I laugh.

“Carl!”

“It was three dates,” she says.

I grimace. “His feet left black marks on our carpet.”

She points at me. “What about Roman?”

“Oh, God,” I say, covering my face with my hands, ashamed.

“Didn’t he ask to have a threesome on your first date?”

“Yeah, with you.”

Paige laughs. “That’s right!”

“He was so surprised I said no.” We both crack up and it’s a wonder they don’t ask us to leave, we’re being so loud.

“I missed this,” Paige says when we’ve giggled ourselves silly and out of breath. “It’s so great to see you in person.”

“Me too. So much. I can’t wait to see you more now.”

“Tru dat,” she says and we burst into another fit of laughter.

Paige goes back to work after lunch, and I take a stroll around the neighborhood, just taking it all in. Then I see an email on my phone from Maisie: still managing to be efficient, even from across an ocean. Here are the student portfolios. I can’t wait to dig in.

I’m standing in front of a gorgeous park—a green expanse like a golf course with a small pond in the center—and I decide that a lovely pastoral setting like this might ease the pressure of my choice a little. Maybe. At the very least, it will be pretty, and I can never turn down something beautiful.

I follow a dirt path down to the pond. Mothers push strollers and elderly women walk tiny dogs past cute white metal benches and little trees growing pink and orange flowers. I sit on a bench and pull my tablet from my bag to better see the art. I angle the screen so it’s shaded by trees above and get to work.

There are 250 graduating seniors and I can choose just ten final projects. Ten students whose careers are going to potentially be catapulted into the stratosphere. This is a life-changing award, and I feel like I’m in no position to be dealing out people’s fates. Just a few weeks ago, I was in their shoes, applying for an internship with fierce competition and hoping that the selection committee would see my talents, hoping that I could show them what I was worth.

My phone pings. St. Clair writes, How’re your sea legs? You up for dinner tonight?

I smile as I type back, Yes! Though my legs make no promises. I hit send before I realize how suggestive that sounds. Crap! Was that too much, past the line of cute flirty and into desperate bar slut-y?

Pick you up at 8. He adds a winky face emoticon and I know it’s silly and so middle-school, but I do a little twirl holding my phone to my chest even though I’m in public. And in England, where public emotion is generally frowned upon.

I don’t care. I can’t wait.

CHAPTER 7

St. Clair opens the car door for me and I step out onto a busy street, pulsing with lights and chatter and after-work drinkers. “Welcome to Soho,” he says. I stand sort of shell-shocked for a minute as my eyes adjust to the barrage of color. “Don’t worry, the restaurant won’t be this bright.”

He leads me past a club pumping out dance music and several bars full of lively people, laughing and enjoying themselves. It doesn’t feel like St. Clair’s type of scene, but several people call out to him from bar patios, and women wave at him and give me the once-over.

“You’re a popular guy.”

He shrugs. “I used to be.”

I wonder how much he used to party, if he still does. Paige and Chelsea have both referred to him being a playboy—am I just another plaything? Will this worry ever go away?

We turn down an alley and the noise suddenly decreases several decibels. A simple brick façade with a metal door and the name Tony’s in white lights are all that indicate there’s anything here at all, but once we’re inside, I immediately see the appeal.

Subtle elegance abounds; now this is more St. Clair’s—at least the St. Clair I know—style. Long white tablecloths are draped over small tables lit intimately with candles. Wooden beams polished to a shine hang above us in the vaulted ceiling and the walls are tastefully decorated with large black and white photos of London through the years.

“Best steak in town,” he says just as the maître d’ comes over. We’re seated in a corner booth, a cozy and private table. We slide into the leather seat and end up closer than planned, but neither of us moves away.

“The ’83 Cote du Rhone, please,” St. Clair says to the host, ordering us a bottle of wine that I don’t even want to contemplate the cost of.

“Very good, Mr. St. Clair,” our host says approvingly, hurrying away to get the bottle.

“Everyone knows you here,” I note again.

He shrugs as he lays his napkin on his lap. “I was born here.”

“When did you move to the States?” I ask, wondering why he would leave. “Don’t you miss it here?”

“The country, sure. The proximity to my family, not so much.” Our wine arrives and the server pours an inch for St. Clair to smell and taste, and once approved, he disappears again as St. Clair fills our glasses. “Have you taken a look at those student portfolios yet?”

“I thought I was supposed to take it easy today?” I tease.

He chuckles, but I can tell this matters to him. “Of course. It’s just that the Grace Bennett I know wouldn’t be able to help herself from peeking.”

“I did take a peek,” I admit. “And I really like what I saw so far. But I’m still feeling a little heady with all this sudden power. The pressure is a bit much.”

He tips his glass toward me. “The cream always rises to the top, Grace. Talent needs time to mature, like a fine wine, and it may not be one person’s time to shine now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t eventually.” He nods. “You just pick the work that speaks to you, that shows the most promise.”

“What about people whose confidence gets shot and they give up?”

He looks at me carefully before speaking, knowing me well enough by now to realize I’m talking about myself, too.

“Failure can knock you down, or it can drive you to succeed, to push harder. It’s all in how you look at it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “When I first took over my father’s company, I made a colossal mistake. I won’t bore you with the details, but it cost the company millions in a failed deal, and then millions more when we lost that client.” He winces. “It still hurts to talk about.”

“I throw a fit when I lose a twenty,” I say, and he laughs.

“This was a lot of twenties. But in the end, it was the thing that made me stronger and better. I was no longer cocky, and started triple checking every move I made, and it gave me the determination I needed to prove to those finance assholes that I deserved this job for more than just my name.”

I’m impressed. “Not everyone in your position would work as hard as you.”

“I never wanted to trade on my background. I wanted to make my own reputation.”

He’s not like the Chelseas of the world—he could have been just another spoiled trust fund kid, but he chose a different path. It’s one of the things I like about him. “You’ve done a fabulous job.”

“I can always do more. That’s why I’m helping with this graduation ceremony, giving back to these students. I want to help support a new generation of artists achieve their dreams.”

“You’re like a Renaissance patron of the arts. A modern day Medici.” I frown. “But hopefully you aren’t vying for political power.”

St. Clair laughs, his eyes sparkling with delight. “I love your sexy art references.”

“You’d be the first,” I smile, thinking of all the bad first dates I’ve been on. “I was on a blind date once, and the guy said he loved Monet: the guy’s last album was killer!”

St. Clair laughs as our waiters arrive with plates of food. Filet mignon with chanterelle mushrooms and roasted fingerling potatoes, endive and pear salad with candied pecans and shaved parmesan, and fresh-baked bread for each of us.

“This looks amazing,” I say, my mouth watering. “I eat so much Italian food—this is a treat!” I freeze with my knife halfway through my steak. “Don’t tell Giovanni or Fred I said that!”

“Cross my heart,” he grins. “This is my comfort food—simple, classic, good ingredients. This is one of my favorite restaurants in London.”

The food is delicious and we eat happily, talking in between mouthfuls a bit more about the student exhibition and the sights of the city. It’s a lovely meal, and I’m feeling peaceful and content as we leave the table.

St. Clair takes my hand as we leave, and I can feel his pulse in his fingers, a little spark of heat as we exit through the lobby. The maître d’ says goodnight and we are almost out the door when I feel St. Clair tense up. An upper-crust-and-he-wants-everyone-to know-it-type guy in a flashy suit has just entered with what I assume is a trophy girl on his arm, with shiny dark hair and scantily clothed.

The tall, red-haired man sees him. “St. Clair!” the man bellows as he swaggers over, almost dragging his girlfriend who’s in heels too high to take normal steps. He claps St. Clair on the shoulder. “Good to see you, mate.”

I wouldn’t like him, even if St. Clair wasn’t rigid as steel beside me. The guy has ruddy cheeks and a smug, sneering expression permanently fixed on his face.

St. Clair doesn’t speak. St. Clair, speechless?

The man says to me, “Spencer Crawford.” He doesn’t offer his hand or introduce his date. “Have you sufficiently licked your wounds since the showdown at the Soho Auction House?”

St. Clair glares at Crawford. “I never sweat the small things, Crawford.” His tone is icy, so different from the playful St. Clair I’m used to. “I don’t suppose you managed to find the title deed for that Armande painting?”

“I won that fair and square,” Crawford says, smirking. He leans in close. “For such a loser, you’re not very good at it.” He lets out a harsh laugh, but St. Clair doesn’t join in.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” St. Clair says as he turns to me, ignoring Crawford completely.

“Good idea,” I agree.

Out in the brisk night, the stars are obscured by low clouds, but the party still continues in the bars and clubs. St. Clair walks in silence beside me for a block before I ask, “What happened in there? Who is that guy?”

“Nobody worth mentioning.”

“Come on,” I urge him. “You guys obviously have a history.”

St. Clair sighs. “Spencer Crawford was a prep school bully who picked on the weak and took pleasure in it. As an adult, he’s graduated to the role of corporate raider.”

I try to lighten the mood. “Like Indiana Jones?”

St. Clair smiles at my joke, but not enough to snap him out of his momentary darkness. “He only cares about profits and trophies, bottom lines and status symbols. He’s more like Prince John, stealing from the poor and underrepresented to provide for the rich.”

I remember what he told me about the Durer painting being looted by the Nazis. “Are you more like Robin Hood?”

He gives a bitter laugh. “Sometimes I wish I could be.”

“The Armande painting Crawford mentioned—is that Pierre Armande?” I ask, naming a famous impressionist painter.

He nods. “Yes. It’s his last known work, the famous Garden of the Valley. It used to belong to my mother, a family heirloom that was passed down through generations, kept through poverty and smuggled out during wars. Priceless. And my father lost it to that asshole.”

“What happened?”

St. Clair swallows, like he’s been carrying this burden for years, and I guess he has. “My father has a gambling problem,” he admits quietly. “A big one, and got into a lot of debt a few years ago that he kept secret from the rest of us. Crawford, opportunist extraordinaire, bought my dad’s debt and then demanded the Armande in payment.”

“What a jackass,” I blurt angrily.

St. Clair nods. “My dad, too. And it gets worse. Mom was sick, so Dad ferreted the painting out in the middle of the night without the title deeds or official sale papers. Crawford never should have accepted it.”

I can’t believe it. “Can’t you sue him and get it back?”

St. Clair pauses. “I considered it. But a court case would draw attention to my father’s illegal dealings.” He sighs again. “I was in the US when all this happened and when I found out, I offered Crawford ten times what he paid for it, but he just loves having it to lord over me. I should have been there, I could have prevented this.” He sounds angry, not at Crawford, but himself.

“It sounds like you did everything you could,” I say gently.

“It’s not enough,” he says sharply, and then softens. “Grace, I’m so sorry. I’m being incredibly rude, spilling all my dark family secrets.”

“You’re not. I love that you tried so hard to get your family heirloom back. You care about what’s right, and not many guys think that way.”

St. Clair squeezes my hand, and I remember, he’s still holding it. Then he brings it to his lips, and drops a light kiss on my knuckles. It’s just a moment of contact, but I shiver, remembering those lips on mine.

And more…

As a rush of heat spreads low in my belly, I force myself to shake away the memory before I get too distracted.

Charles doesn’t let go of my hand and we walk a little further, the buildings full of brick and wood, old, sturdy construction. “We don’t have this kind of age to the buildings in California,” I say, looking around. “Everything feels so stately here.”

He smiles. “Stately sounds boring.”

“You know, sophisticated. Cultured, full of art everywhere you turn.” We come across a small courtyard with a fountain. Statues of three young women stand in stone in the pool, water cascading out of their heads. “Like, how pretty is this? There are little pockets of beauty all over this city.”

St. Clair pauses, and then a wicked grin spreads across his handsome face. “Let’s take a dip, shall we?”

“What?” I gasp. “No! Isn’t that illegal?”

St. Clair laughs at me as he loosens his tie and takes off his shoes. “Who cares?”