Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Kisses"

Автор книги: Stella London

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

Then, before I can process that he’s actually serious, he climbs over the fountain rim and wades into the water.

“Come on,” he calls, beckoning me. “You’re missing all the fun!”

He stands back, under the spray of the fountain. Water soaks through his shirt, plastering it to his body, and drips in rivulets off his wet hair.

He looks like a masterpiece himself: honed from the finest marble, designed by an expert.

“Grace!” St. Clair insists. He scoops up some water and splashes it at me, but I jump back with a smile, just in time. “Are you going to stand around watching all night?”

I would if I could, but the temptation is too much. I want to feel what it’s like to be so spontaneous and reckless. Giggling, I take off my shoes, and gingerly step into the water.

“It’s cold!” I shriek.

“Come here.” He grabs me and pulls me deeper, under the spray. The water cascades over us and we’re drenched in seconds. I cling to him, laughing, and then slowly, my laughter fades.

He’s looking at me with a raw hunger in his eyes. Desire. I’ve never seen anything like it before.

“Hi,” I whisper, looking up into his eyes. Water drips down his perfect cheekbones, over his mouth. I can’t help but stare.

“Hi.” He moves a wet strand of hair off my forehead and our eyes lock as he leans in to kiss me. Slow and hot and deep. I melt into it, and he yanks me closer, until I’m crushed against his wet, chiseled body.

God, it feels good. I spread my lips and let his tongue invade. He groans and bites at my lower lip, his need fueling my desire. I grab his wet shirt and drag him closer, wanting more, wanting that crackling, full body skin to skin contact. I don’t know how long we’re there, caught up in this epic kiss, but suddenly, there’s the loud blare of a horn.

“Yeah! Get in there!” a holler comes. I break away from Charles to see a car of guys all whooping and cheering as they pass.

I flush red, embarrassed, but St. Clair just laughs and waves back.

I catch my breath, reeling. I could kiss him all night. I hesitate for half a moment and then look him in the eye. “Do you want to come back to my apartment?” I whisper.

“I’m not sure I can wait that long.” He kisses my ear lobe, plants lingering kisses on my neck, his lips warm against my wet skin. “My place is closer.” He rubs his thumbs across my neckline, sending a shiver of longing that spreads out and pools between my thighs.

I try to keep it together. “Sounds good.”

“Let’s hail a cab.”

We make out the whole way to St. Clair’s apartment, steaming up the back windows of the cab like a couple of teenagers. When the cab pulls up to the entrance, St. Clair throws a couple of twenty pound notes down. “Keep the change.”

He hustles me inside, kissing me up against the wall before the door has even closed behind us.

“You’re all wet,” he murmurs, caressing my breasts through my wet clingy dress and the lace of my bra.

I shiver against him, running my hands across his torso. I peel away his shirt, stripping him down to his bare skin as I kiss along his chest. I’m so caught up in the moment, I’m hardly able to stay on my feet. I should take a moment to calm down, to think this through, but I don’t want to.

I want to lose myself in him and never come up for air.

St. Clair takes my chin and tilts my face up toward his to claim my mouth again, kissing me passionately. He reaches around to unzip my dress and it slides to the floor. I let out a small moan, remembering the last time he undressed me, the way his hot tongue traced the curves of my body. I shudder in anticipation. He unclasps my bra and dips his head to kiss my breasts. I moan again at the sensation, arching against him, desperate for more. He teases my nipples, licking at them until they’re stiff with need, then taking each into his mouth in turn. He sucks hard, and I cry out with pleasure, clinging to his broad shoulders to keep from swooning to the floor. But I needn’t worry – he lifts me up then, sweeping me into his strong arms and carrying me through the dark apartment to his bedroom.

St. Clair sets me gently on the bed. I gaze up at him as he slowly peels off my panties, and suddenly I’m laying naked and spread before him. His eyes devour every inch of me in the dark.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, slowly undoing his belt and stripping off his pants. “I could look at you forever.”

My heart sings, but as much as his words are a gift, I need more from him; not just more: everything. When he’s naked, I pull him down to me, covering my body with his. The feel of him, skin to skin, is incredible. I can hardly believe it. And then I feel the hot length of him, hard and rigid against me.

Yes.

I lay back, spreading my thighs wider in welcome. “I want you so much,” I whisper, and St. Clair groans in answer. He reaches across to the nightstand, and a moment later, settles between my hips. I feel his fingers caress lightly between us, stroking my clit with perfect pressure until I can’t take the heat anymore. “All of you.” I reach for him, so big and hard, and guide him toward me, ready and waiting. “God, Charles…”

He enters me slowly, like he’s savoring every inch of sensation. I press my head up against his shoulders, it’s such a rush. God, he feels so good.

“Grace,” his voice is strained, and his usually calm expression is replaced with pure need. He rocks deeper, thrusting harder, filling me completely. I gasp and dig my teeth into his shoulder, my nails into his back. I wrap my legs around his torso as he plunges in and out, deeper and faster, and I feel a swell of sweet fire building, the throbbing pressure rising like a tide. He squeezes my ass, holding me in place, and bites at my neck, groaning low in his throat. This is everything I need.

My hips rise to meet his and I throw my head back, reveling in the sensation as his thrusts become quicker, harder, deeper, getting lost in the hot build of our rhythm until the orgasm rips through me like a tsunami, a beautiful wave of pure pleasure strong enough to drown in. I feel St. Clair tense, and then his climax is ripped from him too, and I hear him cry out my name as we both fall into the bliss.

CHAPTER 8

I wake up surrounded by soft sheets in a luxurious bed, feeling dazed and disoriented, but content. I smell coffee before I open my eyes. “Mmm, that smells good,” I say out loud, still sleepy.

“Hey there, sleepy head.” St. Clair kisses my cheek and I suddenly remember everything about last night.

Everything.

“Hey.” I peek at the man beside me, and can’t help but smile. His sleep-tousled hair is sticking up adorably, and his normally chiseled features seem softer, more relaxed. I want to kiss him all over.

“Did you sleep all right?” He leans down just inches from my face like we’re old lovers, rests his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the bed. He smiles. “I slept very well, thanks to you.”

I blush. “Me too.” Better than I’ve slept in months, actually. And it wasn’t just the physical connection. With St. Clair I feel something more. But it’s too early to analyze my love life. I need coffee. “Where’s the Joe?”

He points at his chest. “I’m Char-les, remember?” He grins.

“Oh, oops. I must have gotten in the wrong cab last night,” I grin. “These British guys all look the same.”

“Well then I guess I need to be in the wrong cab more often,” he says and pulls me closer.

“Guess so,” I mumble as he brushes his lips across mine. I happily snuggle into his chest and it’s then that I realize what it is about him: I’m comfortable. It’s stress-free to be with him, fun.

Careful, Grace, what happened to keeping it professional? Guess I left it behind when I got in that cab to St. Clair’s apartment last night.

I grin. “But seriously, I smell coffee.”

He shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “You Americans and your precious cups of joe.”

“What about you?” I tease. “You better not tell your neighbors you’ve defected from tea. They’ll take away your citizenship.”

He laughs again and I can’t help but love how easy this is. Part of me worries it’s too good to be true, but I tell that part to be quiet and leave me to enjoy this moment in peace. How can I find true beauty if I’m not willing to hope, to take a chance that fantasies do occasionally come true?

A timer dings from another room and I realize I haven’t even seen the rest of the house, and the living room was dark and much less interesting to look at than St. Clair last night. “That means your coffee has finished brewing.” He squeezes me in a sweet lingering hug and then sits up, the back of his hair sticking out like porcupine quills. It’s like he’s trying to kill me with cuteness.

I sit up, too, finally seeing beyond the fluffy pillows and blankets. We’re on the second floor which I know because all I see out the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room is light, and blue sky, and tiled rooftops stretching for miles. A flock of birds shoots by and in the distance a church bell chimes. “Gorgeous.”

St. Clair stands up. He looks down at me with affection. “Indeed.” He tugs the covers away. “Come on, sleeping beauty. I’ll make you breakfast.”

There’s so much glass in his condo, we might as well be outside. A large skylight above and lots of windows let in natural light that makes everything glow, the morning sun illuminating his many art pieces: a Van Dyck, yet another Picasso. There are also some more recent British artists in his collection here, a bit bolder, more contemporary and freeform, but still amazing.

“Your collection is incredible,” I say as we pass through the living room to the kitchen. The couch we couldn’t make it to last night—a mere four feet away from the door—is soft taupe suede, the walls plain white, and a white wood mantel frames a clean gas fireplace. “Where do you find the time to buy it all?”

“I don’t.” He rummages through a cabinet next to the stove for a frying pan. He finds one and twirls it in his hand as he turns to me. “That’s why I need you.”

I sit at the counter in a bar stool facing him and watch him as he cooks. He’s confident in the stainless-steel clad kitchen, cracking and beating eggs, toasting bread, frying ham and a few tomato slices as I sip my coffee. I try not to imagine how many other women he has cooked breakfast for and just enjoy him doing it for me. And I mean, doing it for me in every way possible, his white robe creating a triangle of smooth chest I want to run my hands over, feeling the definition of his muscles as I move my hands down his abs—

“So I have a surprise for you,” St. Clair says as he puts a plate in front of me.

“A surprise?” A little flurry of excitement flutters in my chest. “What is it?”

He chuckles. “Well that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

“Tell me!”

“Let’s eat and then we’ll go.”

“Torturer,” I say, eating a bite of ham and eggs. It’s good, of course. Everything St. Clair does is good. Could this man be any more perfect?

St. Clair doesn’t take me far for my surprise, just a few minutes walk away. He turns of off a bustling street with chic cafes and boutiques, and stops outside a narrow townhouse. On the ground floor, there’s a small dry cleaners. I’m confused. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I joke.

He laughs and pulls out a key that opens one of the doors. “Do you trust me?”

I look up into his deep blue eyes and feel it in my gut. I do trust him. I have from the beginning.

“Grace?” He looks worried.

“What?”

“That wasn’t meant to be a trick question.”

“Right.” I shake my head. “Of course I trust you!”

“Good. I was beginning to worry there for a second.” He unlocks the door beside the dry cleaners and leads me up a flight of narrow stairs. There’s another door at the top, and this time after he unlocks it, St. Clair stands aside. “Go ahead,” he grins, looking like he’s the one about to get a gift.

I slowly move past him, then stop in my tracks. It’s an art studio. A dozen canvases of varying sizes line one wall, and several easels are set up on the concrete floor that’s splattered with paint drops and a large spill in some dark color. A shelf against one wall is stocked with all kinds of paints: acrylics, oils, watercolors, and brushes of all kinds and shapes. The studio is filled with light from three windows near the ceiling, and an industrial sink sits in the corner, lovingly stained by past artists.

“Is this space connected to the college?” I ask, still a little confused. “Are we meeting the students?”

“Not exactly,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “This is your surprise. It’s for you.” He gestures at the room.

“For me?” I echo dumbly.

“No, for your art. So you can work, paint again.” He gives a bashful shrug. “Maybe it will help you find your inspiration.”

I’m speechless. “You got this space for me?”

“Do you like it?”

I’m fighting tears. This sweet and thoughtful gesture is more than money. He cares about me and my work. “How can I ever hope to repay you for all of this?” I whisper.

“I want the first Grace Bennett original in my house.” He smiles. “Deal?’

“Deal,” I say, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. He leans down to kiss me, his hands trailing down my cheek to bring my chin up to meet his lips. Our tongues brush each other, our breaths mingling, and it’s electric as always, but there’s more than heat, too; a deeper connection.

“Thank you,” I whisper when we pull apart.

He kisses my forehead. “Thank you, Grace, my lucky charm.” He checks his watch. “Now, I have to get back to some business, but you stay here as long as you like and see what creativity erupts.”

When he leaves I wander the room, lightly touching the paint bottles and running my fingers along the brush bristles in amazement. I can’t believe all this is mine. I ruminate on what St. Clair said about passion never disappearing, and remember what my mom told me about creativity, that it never comes when you try to force it.

Still, I’m nervous after all this time. So I decide to take the pressure off: I pour out some paint and just play around for a while, making lines in random colors, trying different pressures and mediums. I don’t even notice as the day passes until the light is fading from the windows, and I realize I’ve had fun. No-pressure painting, just like back in the old days, before there were outcomes attached to my work. Free. And I have St. Clair to thank for that.

I’m walking on cloud nine on my way back to my flat. I feel like even if I don’t paint a masterpiece anytime soon, today was the first time I put brush to canvas in years, and that is amazing. As I approach my street, I try to think of a way I can show my appreciation to St. Clair. He’s the man who seems to have everything, but I’m sure I can think of some little token to thank him for everything he’s done.

“Hello, Miss Bennett.”

I look up. A man is waiting, leaning against the railing in front of my apartment. I recognize him as Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who’s been investigating the art thefts back home in the States.

I’m surprised to see him here. “Hi, umm, is everything okay?”

“Just dandy.” Nick looks around. “Nice neighborhood. Not bad for an auction house intern.”

I tense a little at the tone. “Art consultant,” I correct him. I get out my keys. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I hope so.” Nick smiles at me. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“We are talking.”

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “More privately.”

Instead of inviting him in, I nod to the small park at the end of the block. “After you.”

We walk together in silence, but my mind is racing. Finally, I ask. “Has there been a break in the Carringer’s case? New leads?”

“You could say that.” We reach a small bench, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’m coming to you because I need your help.”

Really? “My help? With what? I already told you everything I know about the Carringer’s heist. I don’t know anything.”

“And if you did? Would you assist the investigation?” Lennox looks at me dead on.

“Of course,” I frown. “I want to see the thief caught.”

“Good answer.” He smiles at me. “I know who stole the painting from Carringer’s, who’s behind all the thefts, and it turns out you’re in a unique position to assist in proving his guilt.”

I’m still confused. “How? And…who?”

“It was St. Clair.” Lennox tells me, not taking his eyes from my face. “He’s the thief.”

I burst out laughing.

Lennox just waits, his eyes still studying me.

He’s serious?

“There’s no way!” I protest. “St. Clair doesn’t need to steal anything. He bought the painting! He could buy anything he wants!”

“I never said he was in it for the money.”

“Then what?” I’m still reeling. This doesn’t add up. St. Clair isn’t a thief, he cares about wrong and right, and on top of all that, he has no motive. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Aren’t I?” Lennox challenges. “You know our friend: St. Clair thrives off risk, adrenaline. He enjoys breaking the rules, and he doesn’t care about the consequences. He’s rich, idle, and has a God complex. I think he fits the profile perfectly. It’s not just the Carringer’s job, there’s a whole string of international robberies over the past few years. The Brussels gold heist last year. The Alberti diamonds in Monaco. Rio de Janeiro – I could go on.”

“Don’t.” My voice is cold. I know that St. Clair is an adventure junkie, but making out in a public fountain and picnicking in a no-food zone at a museum hardly seem like precursors to multi-million dollar art theft.

I get to my feet. “I’ve heard enough. You have no reason to accuse him. If you really think it’s St. Clair, why haven’t you arrested him yet?”

Lennox’s expression slips. “I don’t have any proof—”

“Ha!”

“Yet. But I will.”

“You’re reaching. The reason you haven’t found any proof is because there isn’t any.” I shake my head, remembering what Paige told me. “I know the case is getting colder. Are you really this desperate?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not wrong, Grace. You can help me get the evidence—”

“Not a chance,” I snap, turning to walk away. But Lennox takes my arm and pulls me back.

“He’s guilty, Grace. And a criminal. And eventually I’m going to catch him. It’d be a shame to see you go down too.” He holds out his card. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”

I can’t believe he’s threatening me. I don’t take the card. “You’re the criminal, smearing his good name.”

He leans in, makes his face look concerned. “He’s not so perfect, you know.” Lennox slips his card into my purse. “St. Clair’s got you fooled. You don’t know him at all.”

“Yes, I do! And you don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s a good man. The best,” I shoot back fiercely.

“Maybe,” Lennox replies. “But on the other hand, maybe he’s too good to be true.” His words strike me, and I can tell from his smirk that he knows it. “Think about it. And when you realize what a fool he’s made of you, come find me. Because I won’t stop until I bring him down.”

He releases me, nods, and then strides away, leaving me alone in the park with the first seeds of doubt beginning to grow in my mind.

CHAPTER 9

“You okay?” St. Clair asks as he pours me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to go with the fish sizzling on the stovetop.

“I’m fine,” I say, for the tenth time this week when he’s caught me in a moment of doubt, a moment of wondering if Lennox could be right, which always turns into a moment of guilt because St. Clair has been so affectionate and wonderful the last few days: cooking me dinner, walking me home, kissing me goodnight– passionate and tender—and not expecting more.

“You seem distracted.”

Maybe because an Interpol agent informed me that you are a major criminal last week, I think but then he reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, his beautiful blue eyes concerned, and I feel bad for even giving the accusations a second thought.

Lennox is on the edge, out of leads, and probably facing a lot of pressure from the agency—there’s no way his suspicions could be true.

“Just thinking about the student art pieces.” I force myself to smile.

“Any good ones? From what I saw, it’s going to be a tough choice.” He flips the filets in their garlic butter sauce and checks on the broccoli roasting in the oven, his biceps flexing in his gray T-shirt. I think I like him best like this: after hours, out of that suit, his hair messy and falling into his face. My breath catches a little in my throat.

“It really is,” I agree. “There’s a lot riding on my choice for them, and I don’t know which way to go with some of the artists.”

“You follow your heart, of course,” St. Clair says and I wonder if he can read my mind.

“Is that how you make your business decisions?”

“Most of the time. Heart, or gut,” St. Clair shrugs. “You can weigh the options over and again, but at the end of the day, every choice is a risk. Our heads just get in the way sometimes.”

"You make it sound so easy.”

He grins. “Don’t you know by now that anything easy isn’t very interesting? But I prefer to make my decisions on instinct, the thrill of the deal.”

As he plates our food, I flash back to what Lennox said about St. Clair enjoying the thrill of the heist. Reckless, he called him. Idle rich. St. Clair has never been idle, but now I wonder about that rebellious streak…

“How are things going with work?” I ask, to get my mind off the subject. “Is the trip working out the way you wanted?”

“Yes, and no.” St. Clair gives a rueful smile as we sit at his dining table. “It’s been good having face-to-face meetings with some business associates, but being over here in England has certain… drawbacks.”

“Like what?” I take a bite of my food, and of course, it’s amazing.

“Like a summons from my father.” St. Clair sighs. “I have to go visit my parents this weekend.”

“You make it sound like you’re visiting the Grim Reaper.”

“Not far off.” He picks at his food. “Though the Grim Reaper would probably be more excited to see me.”

I know his father got into gambling debt, that he was harsh with St. Clair, even when he was a child. And right now it’s plain to see the relationship hasn’t improved. “I could go with you,” I offer.

“Really?” He looks surprised. “You don’t have to. It’ll be a bore.”

“I want to,” I say and mean it. “I’d love to see where you grew up.”

He looks surprised, but happy. “Well, if you’re sure… It would help,” he adds with a small smile. “My parents are a stickler for manners. At least with a guest in the house, they’ll have to be civil.”

“There you go. And who knows, it might be fun. Family dinners can be nice.”

He laughs. “My family is not like the di Fiores, Grace. This will probably not be fun.”

“Way to sell it.”

He laughs again, his dimples doing their best to distract me, his smile warmer now. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He leans over and kisses me on the lips lightly, sending the slightest jolt of electricity through me. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad you’ll be there.”

We drive out in the morning. I sit in the passenger seat of St. Clair’s convertible as we leave the bustling city for the countryside home of his parents in Sussex. I’m excited to learn more about his family, but St. Clair hasn’t said much at all since we left London’s border – seeming to withdraw more with every passing mile. I can see the change come over him the further out we get, moving closer and closer to his past, so I try to lighten the mood, chatting about all the different student projects I’m reviewing – some of them pretty out there.

“Did I tell you about the Twitter installation?” I ask. “This girl stands in a white room reading Twitter comments about darkness out loud.”

St. Clair barely cracks a smile. He keeps his eyes on the road.

I babble on. “And there’s another student who has been spray painting black Xs on abandoned buildings to call attention to the media’s abandonment of diversity and social justice. It’s like they think that by being weird they’ll get noticed, but weird doesn’t mean good, you know? I think some of them are just too young to see that yet. I remember when I was in art school, we all wanted to make a splash.”

He smiles, but it’s dimmed, not his normal thousand watt version. “Any more promising ones?”

“A few. It’s like you said—it’s just not going to be the right time for some of them. Timing is so important.”

Like with us. I think about everything St. Clair has done, how he changed my life in so many ways. Not just the job, and this incredible opportunity to travel, but little things too. Encouraging me to paint again, inspiring me to be more confident and believe in myself more.

The miles slide by, and now the scenery is changing. Green grass on green hills and green leafy trees for miles. Dark wooden barns and white woolly sheep dot the fields and hillsides, and a few wire fences mark property lines, but we are definitely not in the city anymore, out in the English countryside in all its lush glory.

“Are we getting close?” I ask. “I can’t believe you grew up out here. It seems so remote!” I think of my childhood in Oakland, surrounded by activity and noise and people.

“That’s the idea for most of these folks.” He turns onto a narrow paved road I would have missed—unmarked except for an ornate freestanding mailbox. As we wind down the road overhung by giant oak trees, St. Clair seems to tense even more, his jaw tightening.

The lines of oaks on either side of us stop and open up to reveal an amazing country estate, buried in the hills. St. Clair’s family home is all stone and brick, three stories high, and imposing and grand. A low stone wall separates the house from the deep mossy green of the yard and a stone pathway leads to a huge wooden door like a castle entrance. Flowers line the stone wall, and ivy makes a pretty green archway above the door.

“Home sweet home,” St. Clair says in that same tone of the eternally damned. Out of the car, the air smells like fresh earth and feels damp. Ferns and other flowers trail up the path and it’s so quaint and cute, I can’t help but be excited despite St. Clair’s sour mood.

“It’s so pretty, like a fairy tale.”

St. Clair nods as we head up the path. “There are plenty of monsters. Brace yourself. ” He pushes the large door open with some effort. “Mum?”

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim inside, but then I see a tiled entryway and the large sitting room beyond, with windows looking out over a blooming and colorful garden. St. Clair leaves our luggage and we walk through a stone archway into a room with antique velvet couches with shapely lines and plush cushions, dark wood side tables, and brass lamps that complete the castle look. The stone walls are mounted with oil paintings of landscapes, old maps of the UK, and one huge deer head above the mantle. I shudder.

“Darling!” A small woman wearing a flowing peach dress comes in and kisses St. Clair on each cheek. “It’s so wonderful to see you!”

They hug and St. Clair smiles his first real smile since we left London. “Good to see you, too, Mother.”

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she says. “Your father—”

We hear heavy footsteps approaching. “Speak of the devil,” St. Clair mutters as a tall man with St. Clair’s dark hair and swimmer’s build stomps in.

“Son,” he says and extends a hand for St. Clair to shake. “Your front tire looks a little low. Have Renaldo take a look at it before you leave.”

“Hello, father. It’s nice to see you.”

“You’ve brought a guest.” St. Clair’s dad turns his steely gray eyes to me. There’s nothing of St. Clair’s warmth or sparkle of humor in them.

“I was just about to introduce Mum to Grace here. Grace, this is my mum and dad, Alice and Richard.”

“Hello, nice to meet you.”

There’s a long silence as they look me over. I feel like I should curtsey or something. Do I shake their hands? I don’t know what to do with myself. I knew there wouldn’t be warm fuzzies, but this is so awkward. The silence stretches as the large grandfather clock ticks back and forth. I finally settle on, “You have a lovely home.”

St. Clair says, “Grace is helping me with the final art show for the London College of Art.”

Richard snorts. “Still wasting your time on those artsy flights of fancy then.”

“Your son is supporting a wonderful school,” I pipe up. “There are some really talented artists—”

“What about the company?” Richard interrupts me. “Or are you running that one into the ground, too?”

“We have company,” Alice says quietly just as St. Clair’s phone rings.

He looks at the screen. “I have to take this.”

“Of course you do,” Richard says.

“It’s business, father. Remember what it’s like to have a job?”

I cringe inside but watch St. Clair leave through the stone archway. Richard walks out in the other direction without a word.

Alice looks awkward. “Boys will be boys.”

I laugh nervously, not sure what to do here. But clearly, St. Clair’s mother is a practiced hostess. “How about we go have some tea?” Alice suggests. “You must have had a long drive. We could stretch your legs in the garden, have a little walkabout?”

“That sounds great,” I breathe, grateful for an end to the tension.

Outside, in what is obviously her sanctuary, Alice seems to come alive. She shows me her prize rose bushes bursting with color and scent, her pale blue and white clusters of hydrangeas, the bright yellow and magenta snapdragons. We settle at a table by the kitchen door, and she brings out the tea. I can see beyond the garden there’s a pasture with two horses grazing and a stable off to one side. It’s breathtaking. “It’s like a painting,” I say, awed by the natural beauty. “Or something I wish I could paint.”

“You are an artist, too?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “I dabble. But I really love art.”

“Like Charles.” She passes me a cup. “His father wouldn’t let him pursue anything creative, but I’ve often wondered if he might have gone on to great things if he’d had the choice.”

I nod, not sure how much to disclose. St. Clair has not painted a glowing portrait of the family patriarch. Alice chuckles. “Ah, so he told you.”

“A few things,” I admit.

She looks out onto the hillside, the dappled gray horses that look small like figurines in the distance. “I’m very proud of my son. I do worry he works too much, though.” She squints at me. “He does, doesn’t he?”